Applying Pressure
I wish my younger self would have written this letter to me
It must have been 2002.
A school week.
I cannot recall the actual day, but I remember I was greeted by an unusual crowd.
My brother, sister, and cousin. The unusual crowd.
Yes, they are my blood relations. No, they were hardly there when I reported back home from school.
Today, they were all present. Even my brother, a basketball fan at the time. He was at home.
Something was off.
Not the wrong kind of off. The beaming kind.
They took off my bag strapped around my shoulders. It looked choreographed. I don’t quite remember how they did it.
Likely, my brother had planned it all. With a few ideas from my sister. He is the kind to come up with such a plot.
He even carried my bag for me.
Again, very odd.
Once inside the house, they nudged me to the bedroom.
Their energy was infectious.
So I’m filled with energy. But who would want to get pushed to the bedroom at such a time?
The crowd was not the only one that was odd.
The bed too joined the party. It looked odd.
There were projections at different parts underneath the blanket.
At this point, they became quiet. In silence, they handed the baton to my curiosity.
I thought someone was hiding underneath the bed, so, I approached cautiously. Peeped.
When I saw that metallic glint, I knew It could only mean one thing.
You only move by applying pressure
I had persistently asked my mother to get me a bicycle.
Looking back, I can’t help but think I was stubborn. Stubbornly persistent.
I would make a promise with my mother and more often than not, meet my end of the bargain. Then I persist for my reward.
Then I would apply pressure.
Stubbornly.
Persistently.
Relentlessly.
I borrowed the same trick when I was in high school, but that is a story for another day.
After nights of constant reminders, my mother brought me a brand new, shimmering maroon BMX. I didn’t know it was a BMX. I used to call it DMX.
The same brother who had planned it all, along with my sister and cousin, introduced me to hip-hop. If there was one fan in the country who would defend DMX, the rapper, with his life, it would be him.
DMX was a common name.
BMX? Not quite.
DMX stuck.
My mother bought me a DMX bike.
I felt like a Ruff Ryder.
I felt like I was the Big Boss, less Rick Ross
On my DMX bike, I felt like a boss.
As the smallest one in the family, I felt like a boss.
The little Rick Ross.
But my brother’s influence did not stop there. Remember, he had to go to his regular basketball practice, I thought. I will never know.
Before leaving, he gave me two pieces of advice.
The first:
Always raise the pedal upward, so when you’re seated, and you apply pressure on it will push you forward.
I have seen many people teach others how to ride bicycles and I am yet to meet anyone who gives such advice. It’s always:
Push yourself forward from the ground.
Or:
Have someone push you from the back.
But I am yet to meet anyone who gives the unique advice my brother gave me.
And like, magic, it worked.
I jetted forward.
That was all he needed to see, because the next advice was to find a hill, and let gravity do the rest.
I could not wait.
I was able to do the first bit. How hard could the second one be?
It was hard.
It was scary.
But over time, it ended up being fun.
I hit myself on trees, blocks of concrete, and trenches.
But I have never been happier going back uphill.
I don’t think I there is a time in my life when the journey uphill was as exciting. I anticipated the ecstatic downhill drop.
For days I did just that, after school.
Swing the pedal up. Apply pressure. And go back uphill.
Until one Saturday afternoon. My uncle was visiting. Not even his presence would detach me from my newfound love. My Ruff Ryder DMX.
As he disappeared into the corner, I started feeling the wind.
I took control. The pedals were rotating. I was making them move.
That afternoon, I cycled from one end of Kayole, through to the other side, Soweto, past Kona Mbaya and back. I was on a mission.
Cruising downhill, I decided to let go of one hand and let the other steer.
This is easy.
I let go of the other.
The DMX jiggled a bit but hung stead. This second bit was a tad difficult, but all I needed were those few seconds. It was possible for a few seconds so it must be possible for a few more.
It was in the days that followed, I could ride free hands off the steer.
I did not try it once. I tried it at least twice.
Try things at least twice
“All first attempts are sloppy and lame. Most people will quit after their first experience with things that don’t go so well, but if you are like my pop and I, then you KNOW that the first attempt is almost destined to fail” — Bond Halbert, from The Boron Letters.
So what do we do?
We apply pressure. At least twice.
My younger self did not know anything about this powerful message. He only continued raising the pedal, going uphill, and applying pressure.
Not once, not twice, but several times.
If I had tried only once, I would have been at the bottom of the hill.
Now I can cycle up and down at my own will.
The bottom of the hill is crowded. Too crowded. Crowded with many people who tried once, and gave up. The bare minimum should be twice.
When trying something new, try at least twice. This is 100% more than the one who tried only once.
The truth is, the second round is the defining round. It is the only other effort you need to steer yourself away from the bottom.
In the same book, Bond continues:
“Just the second attempt at anything hard will be much easier. Not a little bit but by A LOT. It is true of almost everything, not just sports.”
It can be scary. That first trip downhill feels like you’re letting go of your control. Who doesn’t like being in control?
But you should climb that hill.
Raise that pedal. And apply pressure.
At least twice.
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