Back In The Saddle: Learning To Love My Dad, Myself, And The Bicycle Again
How I stepped away from cycling, lost myself to drugs and alcohol, and came back to a life worth living
“I don’t just call you son because you’re mine, I call you Sun because you shine!” my father told me, smiling as he knelt down and bolted on my training wheels, then adjusted the straps on my helmet to prepare me for the day’s adventure. He used to say that to me a lot, before the whole world came crashing down on me, and we both had to be rebuilt after years of pain and alienation.
These days, I sometimes pass by the little strip of pavement where I learned to ride a bike. Taken in through a car window, usually. A dead end street where my father knew there wouldn’t be much traffic, with charming, if uniform, three-story houses on one side and a small hill and sidewalk separating the length of it from one of Baltimore’s busiest streets. He was so patient and gentle, bringing me into the world of cycling one tentative pedal stroke at a time.
His love for me felt like a thing I could hold in my arms then, like my stuffed animal Dog-Dog. Spoken. Felt. Known. Both held closely against my onesie every night as one or both of my parents tucked me into bed with a story and a kiss.
