Pushcart XLIII: Heather Sellers, “Pedal, Pedal, Pedal” (nonfiction) from The Sun #493

My mother’s fear of people contributed to my shyness. I could not figure out how to interact socially in a light, carefree way: not at school, not at the restaurant where I hostessed, and not at Disney World, where I ran a cash register. I was often mute, unable to get my words to move out of me and into the world.
Whenever I went for a ride, though, I breathed easy, because of the way a bike moves through space: fast, quiet, smooth, each moment unfurling into the next. I could sing and often did: songs from The Sound of Music, Man of La Mancha, West Side Story. When I was on my bike, I could not only envision a happy, outgoing future self; I was her. The true me was the girl I was on the bike, and the other me was like a girl under the spell of a horrid witch in a fairy tale.

Complete story available online at The Sun

Sometimes, a girl’s best friend is her bicycle.

Sellers tells her autobiography through the bicycles she has loved. From her first tricycle, to the red bike she had at age five, to the purple bike she got at age ten, to her mother’s unused green bike borrowed after the purple bike was stolen, to more adult bikes later on, bicycles were her version of a talisman as well as transportation. And later, they were her entrance into social interaction and friendships.

Despite the struggles of her youth – or maybe because of them – it’s a warm, hopeful piece, the stock in trade for The Sun. I found her description of her introduction to university to be both funny and familiar.

At college I’d been expecting to find wise professors, studious young people, and a new intellectual life waiting for me to step into it. Instead the campus was inhabited by heavily made-up girls with jewelry and sandals, and smug-faced boys in chinos and polo shirts — perfectly groomed, confident, and involved in one long conversation that I couldn’t join. I walked around the campus in a daze, unable to fit a single syllable into their flow of words.

That’s exactly why I didn’t go to college right after high school – I wouldn’t have stood a chance – but took night classes until I was in my thirties. Too bad I didn’t have a bicycle.

She tells us of Texas, where no one rode bikes, and Michigan, where she found a bike shop that welcomed her and folded her into a social circle. It wa there that she truly learned to socialize. How someone gets a PhD with the limited skills she describes is beyond me, but more power to her.

Sellers wraps up the piece with a declaration: “On land I have fallen so many times. On my bike I have not fallen — not ever, not once.” That sounds like pressure to me, but to her, it’s safety.