Dear Cycling: A Sports Version of Dear John

Last weekend, I completed the 9-bridge route for the Providence Bridge Pedal in Portland, Oregon, which was part of welcoming the city's newest bridge, Tilikum Crossing, into regular use. The ride was fantastic, and every couple miles I found myself stopping (ONCE I'D PULLED OVER AND GOTTEN OUT OF THE ACTIVE LANE) to say holy shit, because holy shit, the skyline is so beautiful at 7:30 in the morning in summer, full of whites and purples and pinks, and the new bridge is meant for pedestrians and runners and cyclists, and this is all impossible not to enjoy.

View of the new bridge, Tilikum Crossing, from (I think) the third bridge I crossed.

A few times, I mentioned to Tom, who signed me up for the race in the first place, that the whole sport might be too fussy for me - that or I am too simple for it - I mean, all the accessories and time and repairs and expenses and, no? You disagree?

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.

Dear Cycling

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.