I decided to try to ride my new e-bike today for two miles on a warm and beautiful day on a quiet and peaceful country road.

Really, it doesn’t seem like much of a big deal to ride a bicycle for a couple of miles. So why I wondered were my hands shaking and my heart racing as I tried to climb on.

It was a considerable – and quite frightening – experience for me. Several people who know me have described me as fearless, but the e-bike opened up some deep and powerful traumas in my life, which I have lived around and not faced.

When I got the bike several months ago,  I rode it once or twice and then panicked, set back by an ugly fall, heavy traffic, and legs and muscles that didn’t realize my body has changed radically since I last rode a bicycle decades ago.

My body and physical prowess were a bitter issue in my family; my father drove me so hard to be more athletic that our relationship was destroyed; we rarely spoke after I was eleven years old.

He was angry about my bed-wetting and my growing fear of even the simplest gym activities or athletics. He feared I would grow up to be a sissy. He equated strength with the ability to play basketball.

In the process, he made me strong enough to ignore him for the rest of my life.

As a writer, I could hide from my body and mistrusted it all whole life. After all, a writer doesn’t need to ride a bike; I can sit on my ass all day.

Somehow, the bike brought up all of these issues with a vengeance. All of this was complicated by two heart catheterization procedures right after I got the bike, which interrupted my ability to ride at all. Heart disease doesn’t always promote self-confidence.

I realized that I had important work to do. There was no instant pill for this.

My work began with therapy, where my therapist traced back the trauma that surrounded exercise and gave me a range of ideas: the bike had nothing to do with my father; it was my idea and my activity.

I needed to respect the fear and stay away from the bike until I was healthy and strong.  This should be fun, not a dread chore. The therapist and one of my doctors suggested Spring.

I needed to learn about the bike and understand it better. I took several lessons from a helpful young – and gentle –  young man at the bike store. I had no idea what the bike was capable of or how to hold my feet or manipulate the settings.

I was using the wrong pedals for me, did not understand the settings, and was wearing the wrong shoes.

Most importantly, I was shocked to understand that my body was radically different from what I remembered when I last rode bicycles.

(As I tried to ride, Maria worked on the sketch she began drawing after she learned that a majority of white women voted for Donald Trump.) 

I joined a nearby gym and threw myself into my cardio-rehab work.

The nurses pointed me to exercises which built up my legs and thighs and other muscles I need to be strong on a bicycle, even an e-bike.

They put me on stationary bikes so I’d get used to the position.

Friday, they all urged me to get on my bike; they said they would pray for me and watch my blog hopefully. Okay, Marie, I got on my bike today. And thanks.

In mental therapy, we made huge progress in my learning to let go of the bed-wetting fear and shame, deal with the ridicule I had faced from other children, and separate this experience from my father’s daily berating of me as a sissy or a weak person.

Day by day, I felt my leg muscles grow; the rehab nurses got me on the right machines. I can easily handle 40 minutes or more at high speeds.

My doctors have all given me the go-ahead to ride the bike again, although carefully.

Maria has been her usual rock of support, encouraging me to take my time, make sure this is fun, and wait until I was ready. She never makes me feel weak or foolish, even when I am both.

When I fell and was sprawled bleeding in the driveway a few months ago, I lay on the ground, transported back to an awful time, and I just thought of her, and I found the strength to untangle myself and get up and limp into the house.

I woke up this morning to a beautiful day and knew this was the day I would try to get back on the bike.

I felt strong, physically, and mentally; I understood the strengths and limitations of a man my age. Maria asked me if I was stressed. I said no; I was terrified.

But I had an important revelation: exercise feels good if you open yourself up to it. And it has been perfect for my heart.

I’ve learned in recent years that it’s the strong who get help, not the weak. I learned that help helps.

I never exercised long enough or thoughtfully enough to understand how good it feels for the body and the mind. It feels wonderful to feel healthy; the body appreciates exercise and returns the favor.

So the bike became my own thing, a collaborative venture between my mind, heart, and body. We were all on the same team.

All of me was in it together, a new experience for me. I had learned everything I needed to know, accepted what I could do and couldn’t do, and said goodbye to my father’s idea of me.

The therapist helped me see that he was a good man in many ways; he just was not good to me.

I bought a bike rack to stay away from the busy highways that were disturbing, and Maria helped me load the bike up on it today.

We drove together to a beautiful, isolated part just a few miles from the farm.

She went off to sketch while I got on the bike.  She was along for moral support. She hugged me and wished me luck, and went off for a walk with her sketchbook. There is no one else on this earth I would have wanted to be there with me.

I got on the bike, still shaking. I had trouble getting my right foot up onto the pedal. I got the settings wrong again – it’s been a while – but I got moving forward. I felt the old fear rising in my throat.

Because the settings were wrong, I struggled up a hill and had to stop. I figured the settings out and rode for a peaceful and beautiful mile or two.

I loved the feeling of the bike gliding, the beauty all around me, the gentle wind blowing in my face. This was why I wanted the bike. I could feel how much I would love it, even as I grew older.

As I returned to Maria and the car, I was still frightened but proud. My legs ached, and my mouth was dry. I pulled back into the field where Maria was waiting for me, sketch in hand, she had taken a walk. My hands were still shaking, but my heart was triumphant.

Maria said I looked like a natural on the bike. I drank a lot of water and sat in the car with her, holding her hand.

But I did ride the bike. I know I will be riding it again, and often. I know I can do it now, and each time will be better and better. As usual, the lesson is to don’t quit, to get help if help is needed. To be open and honest about fear.

And to believe in me and my ability to heal, I recover every day.

The bike was a good move. It has already taken me more places than I thought it would.