What my childhood bicycle meant to me was perfectly described by what my friend’s 10 year old daughter said to her beloved bike: “You made me free.”
On my bike, I could be away from my home, the least safe place in my life. I could be myself and have a say in what was happening to me.
The sensation of moving was so pleasurable. To pedal fast, coast, feel the summer air run through my hair and flap my tshirt like a super hero cape felt like flying.
Even coming to stops felt magnificent. I’d hit my back brake, leaving a calligraphic skid mark in the dirt and a billow of dust rising in its wake.
I rode my bike everywhere I could: down to the creek to catch frogs, to my friend’s house, or no where in particular.
One day I caught glimpse of parachuters magically descending out of the sky towards the training school a few miles away.
I took off in my bike on a mission to watch them land. I got a half mile down the gravel road, when a dog came charging at me to protect the boundaries of its farm.
I froze in fear. I stopped, held still, and let the dog sniff me, exactly as instructed by cartoon Wonder Woman in a PSA. But instead of sensing my benevolence, it sensed my fear, which must smell like guilt because it bit my leg.
It only scratched the surface of my skin but the incident really shook me. I was only nine. A nine year old who had good intentions but was bit anyway. It felt exactly like the trauma at home of being chronically and unpredictably intimidated and bullied by my step dad. To this day, the bark of an angry dog feels like a jolt of electricity direct to my heart and I’m instantly angry. It’s a PTSD trigger.
My next incident with a dog was when I was twelve.
I had started riding my bike to school. In trying different routes, I rode past a pig farm with a very large, aggressive dog charging at me who had no intention of giving me an judicious sniff.
I pedaled as fast as I could and barely made it past the farm, shins in tact but deeply shaken.
In yet another futile attempt to get support or maybe just connect with my step dad, I told him about it.
“Hey dad, I just rode my bike past the pig farm and their huge dog came after me and I barely made it past him!”
“Yeah?”
He seems to not like my comment so I don’t know what to say next.
“Yeah. Well I guess I shouldn’t ride past there anymore.”
“Why?”
What does he mean “why”? I just told him.
“Because their dog almost bit me!”
“You shouldn’t be afraid of a dog. Just bring a stick with you and beat it back if it comes near you.”
I feel like I’m in trouble. That there is something wrong with me because I’m scared of a huge aggressive dog, that triggers the PTSD I got from the very person who is criticizing me.
Now I see that this, again, reinforced my understanding of the world that there is no support and guidance available to me.
“But how can I ride a bike and carry a stick?”
He’s getting irritated.
“Just lay it across your handlebars!”
“How will I work the brakes?”
“Boy, don’t be difficult. Go find a stick.”
“That’s okay, I’ll just go down a different street.”
“Don’t back talk me! Get a stick and get on your bike. I’m going to show you how it’s done.”
I’m surprised because I thought he was going to get on his bike and ride next to me, and protect me. The way, I suppose, kids feel towards nurturing parents.
But no. He got his baseball bat from behind the front door, and got into his car.
“Get going. I’m going to follow you to make sure you do it.”
“But it’s going to bite me!”
“God damn it! Quit pussy footing around. You’re going to get over this. Now get going!”
I awkwardly saddled my bike with a stick across my handlebars and turned onto our gravel road. My step dad followed a car length behind me.
No matter what weapon I was armed with against my step dad (logic, obedience, crying, pleading, hiding, standing my ground) nothing prevented him from attacking me. That was my training in how life worked so having a stick across my handlebars put me no closer to knowing how the hell this was going to work against an angry dog.
A mile and turn down the next road later, the smell of manure arrived before the sight of the farm did.
As soon as I entered the border of the yard, the dog came running and growling to intercept it.
“Hit him” My step dad yelled from his car.
But panic took control of me and all I could do was pedal faster. The dog nearly caught me when my step dad swerved at the dog, almost hitting it. He stopped, stepped out, with one foot on the ground, one still in the car, and his baseball bat ready. The dog ran back to its house.
Now what? I supposed he’d pull next to me and lecture me about not doing as I’m told, or on around the block
My step dad got back into his car, turned around and drove back home.
There was no way I was riding back past the house by myself, so I had to go all the way around my mile-square block to get back home.
I was confused why he didn’t follow me the rest of the way to make sure I stood up to other possible dogs. But I guess he thought his job was done and he taught me how to handle an angry dog and face my fears.
All I learned was: keep my fucking mouth shut.