|View of the new bridge, Tilikum Crossing, from (I think) the third bridge I crossed.|
Tom adores his bike. Bikes. He loves to ride. And so do I - it's fun. You know. It's... fun. Some of my favorite childhood memories are of riding my bike no hands with Chelsea down Pheasant Hill. Biking is cool. I like it.
|In all our post-ride glory.|
But running, that's different. A couple years ago, my sister got me a copy of Train Like a Mother and, I'm not kidding you, whited out every reference to motherhood or momming and replaced those terms with "Ph.D. student" or "poet". (I didn't have a kid yet and thought books written solely for moms were ridiculous... a feeling which, now that I have a kid, hasn't actually changed much.)
Most active people practice one sport that really hits the spot, that outshines other activities that, sure, you enjoy, but do you love them? I like swimming. I like biking. I like lifting weights. (JK, I lift weights and find it tedious.) But I love running. And no, I'm not a marathon runner, and my knees' wellbeing keeps me from doing even the half-marathons that, if I'm honest, I'm not really interested in anyway. I run 5-6 miles on a long day and 2-3 most days. I run because it feels good and I can see where I am and I can run in the city or at home or around my work or with a dog. I don't have to operate, carry, or rely on anything that isn't me. The sport is me, and I am the sport. (This is also the downfall of a sprain or other injury, when your "being the sport" is also what keeps you entirely banished from it until recovery.) I go slow when I want to go slow and fast when I want to be fast.
This morning, I broke the roof rack on my car before I could go for a ride, which I thought I needed to do on account of the crunching noise my left knee has been making, and how it seems to buckle when I go up or down stairs. I called Tom. He couldn't walk me through fixing it. Suddenly, biking was too demanding for me. At least for today. I gave my bike the stink-eye, there in the yard. You prick, I thought. I could be running right now.
So I went for a run. A nice, easy, 9:27 mile, two and a half miles, on the Nathan Chapman Memorial Trail. My knee was quiet. I promised it ice. About a half mile in, it started to rain. I could hear the water pressing through the enormous pine trees above me but couldn't feel it. Everything smelled like blackberries. I finished, walked, and went home to work.
Then I wrote a poem about cycling because it was either that or work on conference prep and dissertation revisions and I can do that at night, right? Also, I've been rereading Denise Duhamel's Blowout. Thanks for reading, guys! And cyclists, thanks for your patience. Because we all know how much you value patience.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t try
to make this work because my husband
was watching, that he wanted to see us
barrel down paved trails together
with all the discretion of children,
my mouth purpled by blackberries,
your chains licking grease off my calves.
He’s the one who introduced us:
he brought you home to me one night
and we flirted in the gravel driveway,
your silver sprockets grinning up at me
and a frame I could lift over my head like a cat.
He said you’d be kinder to my knees
than running, you were low-impact,
you could be tailored to my body.
Every relationship ends in a single moment:
one second I’m icing the kneecap
running has bitten and chewed,
the next I’m trying on helmets.
One second I’m shopping for you,
you want reflectors and handlebar tape,
the next I’m whizzing past a cyclist
under chest compressions on the race route.
One second I’m cross-threading the bolt
on the bike rack and the next I’ve given up,
me clinging to the roof of the Subaru
while you sprawl in the yard, kickstand-less,
suddenly slouchier than running ever was,
more expensive and higher maintenance,
too confident. I’m tired of your fussiness
and your time commitment, how long it takes
for you to get my heart pounding.
And the accessories! I’m sick to death
of the gloves and racks and the special shoes
that can’t be walked across hardwood,
the padded shorts and moisture-wicking jerseys
with pockets too narrow for a book of poems.
Cycling, you’re the lover I’ve spent years
wanting to be with because my husband
thinks we’re sexy together, amped up
on speed and glistening in spandex.
But I’ve been too plain for you all along,
a minimalist wanting her simpler art:
the movement of my legs against space.
I’ve been spending more time
with my guru who survives on sneakers
and whatever I happen to be wearing,
who costs nothing and requires no grease,
who accepts twenty minutes
with the same gratitude he might take an afternoon,
who tells me, especially in summer,
that I can come back any time.
I’ve been running. Cycling, I’ve lost patience
for you, though you’ve been a gentle friend.
My crumbling kneecaps will miss your tenderness.
I may come back for that kindness alone,
but please don’t beg. Stay available. Be cool.