I’m not sure how to talk about this because saying, “I’m disabled” doesn’t quite sound right. I am disabled, but there’s just something so heavy and restrictive about that statement, so final.
There’s nothing final about my experience.
My favorite part about riding my bike is the sense of autonomy I feel. For brief moments I look down at my legs and marvel at carrying myself miles away, up hills, down busy streets, fulfilling my own tasks. I am aware of the risks, but I feel confident that I could cope with those situations, and the confidence outweighing the fear makes me feel like I am the wind itself.
The first time I set out alone on my bike it was raining and cold. The house was empty with my husband and housemate each at their respective jobs. First I felt paralyzed with sadness, then I felt enraged by that paralysis. It felt like a poison. As I looked out the window trying desperately to think of what to do, I remembered how I felt days ago when my husband and I went for a bike ride that ended up being about 14 miles because I didn’t want to stop. I remembered the rage that kept building up and then dissipating with the next mile. I remembered how jubilantly I felt about my body’s power and ability.
As soon as I started pedaling, I knew I had made a good decision. The rain soaked me and my glasses fogged up. I almost cried several times, from equal parts sadness and gratitude.
I don’t have chronic pain. I have not lost any of my limbs. My hearing, vision, and sense of smell are all decent. I am not constantly sick from medical treatments. My body is not rapidly deteriorating under the burden of disease or illness. And even with those realities, people still do amazing things. Everyday.
Moments feel small to me lately. The giants have climbed back up the stalk and my house is not under threat of being smashed. Not right now. On a lovely Saturday afternoon my husband and I rode our bikes downtown to Atlantic Ale House for Noli tacos and beer. Others had the same idea, their bikes parked across from the cars while they congregated outside around picnic tables, leashed puppies, and cornhole boards. AAH is a small, new establishment, reflective of Johnson City’s development downtown. We were pleased to find that it’s style in no way points to a lack of substance. Our beers were delicious and I tried to make myself sip slowly while waiting for our tacos.
R noted that just across the road are soup kitchens, low income housing, and for brief periods of time before they’re forced to disperse the occasional shanty town. Our city is not stranger than other cities in that signs of financial disparity are everywhere, but there is the peculiar balancing act of still feeling you have access to so much from below the poverty line without lying to yourself. To appreciate the wealth of a cold porter and fish tacos in the sunshine because there is this pleasure to be had for now.
I am starting to believe that our smallness is our greatest strength when we can embrace it. Especially combined with the fact that we’re so much bigger on the inside.