“It’s finished,” The clink of one wrench being exchanged for another accompanied the voice from behind the couch. The taller one saved his work, closed his laptop, and glanced over at the earnest figure methodically testing each nut on the bike one last time.
“Are the handlebars still slipping?” The taller one came around the room-dividing couch, knelt down, and began gathering wrenches into their box. He paused with a handlebar-nut-sized wrench in his hand.
The short one shook his head, “no,” as he reached up and gave the handle bar a torqing push-pull. “The bolts are tight now, see?”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” He got up off the floor and stood, looking even smaller next to the big two-wheeler. He began to back-and-forth it awkwardly into a turn.
“You want to ride it now?” The tall one stood, looking at the eager struggle moving the bike toward the front door. “It’s dark.”
“No traffic. No one will see if I fall over.” He put down the kickstand, opened the front door, and began to wrestle the bike onto the porch.
“What do you want me to do?” Helping lift the back wheel over the doorsill, the tall one checked the street for traffic. It was dark and empty to the end of the block on both ends, a single pool of street light in the middle of the block a few houses down. “Should I hold it for you?”
“Maybe,” the short one paused at the top of the driveway, stooped to raise the kickstand with his hand, made a feint at straddling the bike, hesitated, and kept walking toward the street. “I think I better get on at the curb.”
Trailing after, the tall one checked again for traffic. It was late, quiet and dark, no neighbors to be seen.
The short one was standing on the curb with the bike in the street, trying to use the six-inch rise to help him clear the seat as he made a full attempt to straddle, but he hit the back of the seat with his left leg, leaving it stuck on top of the back tire, nearly losing his balance.
The tall one quickly stepped forward, reaching out to steady the bike with a handlebar, and helped him get his leg over the seat.
Recovering, the short one took a handlebar in his right hand, put his left foot on the pedal with his left hand, and balanced himself in the seat, his right toe just touching the curb.
Standing on the left, the street side, the tall one held both his hands out, ready to steady something. “I don’t know what to do here. Should I walk along beside you?”
“I don’t know, let’s see.” The short one pushed off the curb and began to pedal slowly. The tall one kept pace walking along side. After two slow pedal revolutions, many bursts of tiny steering corrections, the tall one moved to a brisk walk, and the short one settled into a balanced ride.
Suddenly his left foot slipped from the pedal and began dragging the ground, pulling the bike left, the handlebars slipped a few inches, and the bike and rider fell over to the right.
The tall one hovered and reached, grasping the bike, grasping the short one’s arm, trying but failing to halt the crash. He bent over, hoisted the short one out of the bike wreckage, and onto his feet.
The short one babbled, “That didn’t take long. I wonder if I tore it up." He began to breathe quickly. "Brand new bike,” shaking his head side to side as he stood the bike on it's wheels, checking it for damage, “first ride shouldn’t be the first crash.” He stood still for a moment looking down at the bike, then wrenched the handlebars back into a right angle to the tire and sighed; "I’ve bought a bike I can’t ride.” Earnestness drained out of him, leaving him slump shouldered.
The tall one said, “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” embracing the short one in a silent bear hug.
The short one noticed the the pool of light around them in the middle of the dark street, middle of the block, and began to laugh. “The neighbors are going to think we’re both drunk.”
“Nobody is watching,” said the tall one.
They pushed the bike to the curb where the short one climbed on the bike again and pushed off. With the tall one jogging alongside, the short one rode slowly down the street, finally making a big "U"-turn to head back to the house, up the drive, to a shaky dismount.
“You did it,” the tall one said. “Yaaay Daddy,” making a quiet moc-croud cheer.
“Yeah,” said the short one.
__________________________________________________________
I’ve been struggling.
A downhill slide, the aging Polio survivors’ deteriorating physical ability—possibly post-Polio syndrome—sucks at my energy, limits my choices, reduces my productivity, and, once again, hobbles me. Dispirited by betrayal, I had drifted away from workouts and healthy eating. By last spring I ballooned up to two seventy-three and began struggling to haul myself around on crutches. Finally emerging from an emotional fog, I found myself body blocked, crashing into new physical limits.
Worried I wouldn’t be able to continue teaching, that I wouldn’t be able pay for my son’s college, and doubting the dependability of my ex-wife’s promise to help him. I decide it is urgent for me to recover some of my mobility. In mid-June, I went back to the gym and pool. Slowly, I began to get stronger, to lose weight, but the process was very slow and school started in early August. I needed to get around quicker. Teaching is more than sitting at a desk and tossing worksheets at kids, especially teaching theatre. I began using a wheelchair at school.
Therefore, I’m back to my old trade-off. It’s the same old situation. I use the wheelchair to go faster, because a walk to the mailroom is over ten minutes, a walk to the restroom is several minutes, to the lunchroom and back takes so long I have to bolt my food. However, a few weeks using the wheelchair “only when necessary” and I believe I can perceive deterioration.
Sometimes the “only when necessary” stretches from when I walk into the studio theatre in the morning and sit down in the wheelchair by the back door to when I park it by the back door that evening on my way home. I spend more time in the chair than I think I should and as a consequence I don’t feel I can stand up as long as I use to, or that I can walk as far.
I can’t tell if there is a causal link between this perceived deterioration and the wheelchair use. It could just be part of the general downhill slide. So I struggle, emotionally and physically.
I decide I need another exercise mode, one that will work my legs to compensate for the exercise I lose when I use the wheelchair, so I begin looking at bicycles. Up until five years ago, I rode a bike regularly. At Texas Tech, it was a major part of my transportation, but even then, I was unsteady on it. In order to pedal with full leg extension I had to place the seat so high that getting on and off was precarious. To others, I seemed perilously close to falling each time I climbed on and off.
I began to be concerned I would have to give up riding altogether until I found a bike with a different frame configuration, one placing the seat closer to the ground, an Electra, a beach cruiser with what they call “flat foot technology.” The pedals are forward of the seat rather than beneath it, so I could push the pedal with my right leg fully extended. I shopped around for six months and bought a used one.
When the Electra arrived, I found I could reach the ground with both feet as expected, but the pedal position meant I couldn’t balance my left foot on the pedal as I was accustom to doing. It would fall off, and because the seat was lower, drag the ground. My first disastrous half-block-followed-by-a-fall in front of my son was briefly redeemed by a ride back to the house. The next night I made myself climb back on and ride around the block, alone. I managed to keep my foot on the pedal by holding my leg with my left hand. That, however, left only one hand on the handlebars, precarious in its own way. I haven’t tried to ride it since.
I think I’m afraid.
