Unbroken

I’ve always loved the climbs.
I love the pain in my legs. The feel of the handlebars gripped tightly beneath my gloved palms. My feet on the pedals, spinning and spinning and spinning as I tell myself that it’s just a little bit farther, whether that’s true or not. And then, just when I think I can’t keep this up, the path begins to flatten out. And then it slopes downward.
And that’s when I get to fly.
“Thank God,” Lorna rasped from the captain’s seat of the tandem. “I’m dying.”
I balanced my feet on the pedals and pushed upward, standing with my hands still on the handlebars. I laughed as the wind whipped past, glad to relieve some of the pressure from my aching backside.
“Are you even tired?” Lorna demanded, then added,
“Turning right,” as we coasted around a bend in the
path.
“You should probably go ahead and change gears,” I reminded her. “And I’m a little tired.” She scoffed.
“To be fair, I’ve been riding this loop with Dad for years,” I told her. “I’m pretty used to Puckett Hill. Keep riding with us and you’ll get there.”
“We’ll see,” she said. “Gears should be good. I’m about to start pedaling again.”
I felt it when her feet began to move, and I tried to match her pace. It was slower than what I was used to, but that was okay. Lorna was new to the club, and at least I didn’t feel like I was holding her back.
That was one of the challenges of riding a tandem bike. It was easy for someone to not pull their weight. Or to push too hard and overpower their partner. The captain and the stoker have to find the right balance of speed and resistance. And, most important, communication.
Especially when the stoker- the person riding in back- can’t see.
We started coasting again, and I knew we were getting close to the park benches where the rest of the cycling club would be waiting for us.
“Don’t forget to count us down,” I said, “when we’re going to stop.” “Right,” Lorna said. “Thanks for the reminder. Okay.
In three… two… one.”
I put my foot down as the bike came to a halt. I hopped off the stoker’s seat and stretched before turning toward the benches. I only saw Dad when his pale face, slightly pink with sunburn, was hovering a couple of feet in front of me. He held out my cane and a cold bottle of water.
“Thank you,” I said, taking both from him.
“How was the ride?” he asked.
“Good. We did two loops, so about fourteen miles. Lorna is a good partner.”
“I don’t know about that,” Lorna said. I couldn’t see her, but when she spoke, I realized she was standing just to my left. And based on the swigging sound after her words, Dad had handed her a water bottle, too. “I’m sure Britt’s telling the truth,” Dad said. “We’re glad to have you in the club, Lorna. And now that everyone’s back, I better go make sure we’re all prepped for the big ride tomorrow. Excuse me.”
When he was gone, I turned to Lorna. “I wasn’t lying, you know. You are a good captain. Usually it takes me much longer to train the newbies.”
Like a lot of the people in our cycling club, Lorna was a student at the local college. I’d only met her for the first time a few weeks earlier, when she’d showed up to one of our meetings at the park. Gabe, one of the other cyclists, had a class with her and had invited her to join. She may have been our newest member, but she really was fitting in pretty well.
She smiled. “Thanks, Britt.” She paused and raised a tanned arm to wipe sweat from her forehead before saying, “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did, but sure.”
“Is it scary? To ride in the back? I feel like it would freak me out to not have control of the bike.”
“Well, when you can’t see, the idea of having control of the bike freaks you out a little more.”
“Fair point, I guess.”
“I get what you’re asking, though,” I said, tucking my water bottle under my arm so I could use my free hand to unhook the chinstrap of my helmet. “And it used to. Back when I had more vision. I would sit on the stoker’s seat and try to turn the handlebars. I kept forgetting that I couldn’t actually do that. But I got used to it.”
“You’re brave,” Lorna said.
“I’m not,” I assured her, trying not to bristle. I hated being called brave. It was almost as bad as inspiring. “It’s not bravery. I just really like bikes.”
That was an understatement. Mom used to joke that I’d come out of the womb pedaling, and the reality wasn’t too far off.
Dad had been into cycling since he was a teenager, so the minute I was big enough, he bought my first tricycle. It wasn’t long before I got my first real bike, and only a few months after that that the training wheels came off. By the time I was seven, Dad was taking me out to the local bike path with him every day.
I wasn’t the fastest or the strongest, and, usually, I didn’t mind. It wasn’t about being the best for me. It was about that rush when I coasted down a big hill after a challenging climb. About the satisfaction of aching leg muscles the next day. It all felt like home. For me, cycling felt as natural as walking.
So when my vision first started to go, not being able
to ride anymore was my biggest fear. “We’ll deal with it as it comes,” Dad had promised me.
And for a while, it came slowly. Retinitis pigmentosa is gradual, but persistent. First to go were the night rides. Even with the lights along the bike path in Kuehn Park, it was too dark for me to see well enough to ride safely anymore. So Dad and I started riding in the mornings. And that worked for a while. But then the edges of my vision begin to creep inward. My field of vision steadily narrowed, until I was missing turns and not noticing other cyclists off to my left and right.
And that’s when Dad brought home Tandy. Tandy was not your typical tandem bike. She wasn’t like the big, clunky things you see cute older couples riding on vacation. No. Tandy was a road bike. Slim and light and fast. She was a beautiful hunk of metal, and she’s what kept me pedaling- sight be damned.
It’s been three years since Tandy and I got together. She is my prized possession.