That’s “Miss Bikael Jordan” to You: How biking during COVID lifted my bipolar depression.
by guest writer Jennifer Greenberg.
by guest writer Jennifer Greenberg.
It all started with a bike. Well, actually, it ended with a bike. My bipolar depression, that is. After days on days on hazy days staring at the walls of my East Village apartment room — as ashen as those of the mental institution from which I had recently been discharged — the curse had been lifted. For years, biking had been my only outlet. Whether I was drifting along the sunset ridden beaches of Tel Aviv, or shifting gears on the Rideau Canal in Ottawa, as long as I had two wheels to ride, my troubles felt a little less existential.
Moving to New York with two biking concussions under my belt, I feared the Manhattan traffic. Throw in suicidal ideation and any step above walking was a recipe for disaster. I was destined to be flattened like a rat at Union Square station. And so, I avoided the Trek store, despite my mother’s constant nagging. “You’re always happier with a bicycle,” she said. “Why not put yourself out of your misery.” Instead, I joined Blink Fitness where four pristine stationary bikes awaited my beck and call. Despite my grave state, no matter how many hours I lied in bed contemplating the meaning(lessness) of life, I could always…
