Onto This Furnace

I pulled my bicycle out of storage and refilled the tires with air. The first few rides after being off for a year can be daunting, even on the shallowest of hills in this hilly city. I was not attempting to ride up PJ McCardle yet, but even the ride down was intimidating. 25mph is crawling in a car that can hit 90mph on the autobahn, but it is nearing terminal velocity on my rickety old cycle.

I made it downtown with the late fall air against my cheeks, keeping me from overheating. Whatever it was that I went for, I did, and I decided to take the long way home.

The Eliza Furnace trail runs next to a highway and a river. When I worked downtown for the city, I would often ride it to and from my home in Regent Square. The rush hour traffic on the way into town was never friendly, but once I hit the Run, down into Schenley park, it was clear sailing all the way to Grant Street. It was always an invigorating jumpstart, with this same fall weather chill. And that early morning sunlight, coloring the fast-approaching city with pinkish hues. Frequently, it was the best part of my day.

One night, I was riding home after dark on the trail, feeling jubilant and confident. The decision to bike back up the hills in the East End wasn't always one I was happy to make, but this was a different type of day. I wanted the challenge. In fact, I wanted more. I had seen a hip cat biking through Bloomfield once or twice, not holding the handlebars and more comfortably relaxed on his bicycle than most people in front of their computers. I wanted to learn that grace.

One hand at a time, I attempted to pull away from the handlebars. My right hand felt magnetized, however: as soon as I released it, my legs became unsure underneath me, the bike started pulling side-to-side, and CLICK, the magnets grabbed for each other. Again and again...

Until, I thought of the hipster again. In what may have simply been an attempt at casual coolness, he found this posture. His shoulders were back and relaxed, his spine was long and vertical, his legs were strongly pedaling evenly, even over the potholes on Liberty Ave.

I channeled this posture, slowly stacking my vertebrae on top of themselves, releasing my shoulders from that ever-present western slouch, and tried to relax, even my facial muscles. I tried to release my hands again, this time one finger at a time.

As soon as finger number 9 was released, my body would such that tension back from where I had just tried to release it to. So, I had to focus on keeping relaxed, while still pedaling and staying centered.

Though it was not an easy process to learn, once I was finally able to hold my hand away for more than an anxious second, it felt like such a natural position. I was able to ride for nearly a full ten seconds before I would go back to the handlebar. I wasn't trying to tempt fate with my jean-covered knees and blood.

After I realized I could ride like that - Look Ma, No Hands! - I didn't really try to hone it. How often this describes me. What am I proving, by saying "oh yeah, I can do that", without really getting into the ability. It is a surface ability, not one that will stay with me forever...

But again, on this cold fall day years later, I find myself back on the trail, nearing twilight, questioning my place in this world and the decisions that continue to effect every moment of my busy life. I had asked the universe for guidance earlier that day, so what was I to learn from finding myself here, now?

Well, I took 8 fingers off my handlebars. I took the 9th off. I took the 10th off and stuttered. Again, 8... 9... 10... Finally, I was able remove them and hold them off. After a dozen seconds or so, it was too much, and I would fall back to security.

What could I do to hold in that moment, to be directed and strong in my legs, buoyant and confident in my heart? I sat up straight, breathed evenly, and began to dance.

The movements were small, just a lift here, a sway there, dropping my arms to my side before lifting them out to the sides and up over my head. I moved them slightly unevenly, up or down. I twisted my chest to one side, then the other. I smiled and relaxed my eyeballs onto the trail ahead.

By the time I got to the Hot Metal Bridge, I realized I had been doing this for at least a mile. Much more than my average 10 second hold. The realization made me laugh out loud and almost made me cry joyous tears. All it takes is a bit of dedication, a bit of relaxation, and comfortable enjoyment. This was not a struggle, it was a simple step to take.

By the time I got home, I knew that I would stay in Pittsburgh, despite my nomadic feet itching for a good run. I knew I would start keeping this blog again. I felt confident that things would find a way of working out, if I could keep as alert and relaxed as I had managed to do for this simple mile. I laughed again, biking over roots and branches on the returning South Side trail, no need for handlebars even in this turbulence.