This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on November 4, 2000.
There are times when it hits me hard. Like when people talk about relearning a skill, and then some know-it-all says, “C’mon it’s so easy. It’s like learning how to ride a bike.”
BAM! That goes straight to my ego. Shortly after, I’d respond with the least degrading way of saying, “Sorry, I just don’t get it.”
And my solemn confession would almost always trigger the same unbelieving remark: “Ano?!?! Hindi ka marunong mag-bike?” This is followed by denial (“Owwss!”). And then acceptance (“Kawawa ka naman.”).
Then there are the patronizing ones who would give a litany of my-friend’s-mom’s-neighbor’s-
So what’s my excuse? It’s usually one of the first questions people ask me. To which my lame, sob story answer would be, “I dunno, I just never learned.”
It’s not that I’ve never tried. I remember trying to learn the summer before I turned 16. I had a goal: to look cool as I’ve never looked cooler before. I had a vision of me riding my electric blue BMX on a hot afternoon: The wind in my hair, my muscular calves pedaling strongly yet gracefully, the curve of my back perfectly hunched over the handlebars, and my whole being oozing with confidence. I’ll make the sharpest turns and dodge even the fastest kaskaseros on the street. I’ll speed down to the old sari-sari store where all the neighborhood kids hang out, drinking their Fanta lemon and munching on V Cut. Then with one swift motion, like that of a deviant feline’s hypnotizing tread, I’ll come to an abrupt stop, wipe off a droplet of sweat glittering under the sunlight and utter a breathy “whew.” These brats won’t even know what hit them.
I even knew what I’d be wearing on that anticipated day: my favorite white V-neck and jeans that I transformed into cut-offs. Everything that I learned from my third year sewing class was poured into that project. Every stitch was a labor of love.
I was finishing this dream when my dad called me to our backyard. There I saw that my bike was everything that my BMX fantasy wasn’t.
Thanks a lot, mom, I thought, with a twinge of resentment. The least you could’ve done was spare me from tetano. This “thing” staring back at me was rusty revenge personified. But I was still grateful that my mom supported my dream. Either she was simply being the good mother she’s always been or she felt guilty.
You see, I’ve always asked her why I never learned. But she’s washed her hands clean of it, reminding me of the time she brought me to Luneta to learn on those rent-a-bikes. She vividly remembers that I didn’t show any interest.
Now here’s my version. Let’s backtrack to 1984. I do remember going to Luneta. And I do remember seeing lots of kids on bikes. But I also vividly remember wearing a frilly pink dress that day. Go figure.
That’s all in the past, though. Now I have a rusty thing to practice on. For a couple of days I struggled, always expecting to fall. I had psyched myself up for the bruises, the blood and gore, the fractured rib or two, the minor concussion. Yet to my dismay, nothing happened. Partly because I never got anywhere inside our cemented backyard-all 30 square feet of it.
Naturally, I didn’t venture out into the street. I couldn’t let those brats in on my secret. They’d have to see the finished product, not the trying-hard student. But whatever’s left of my patience was running out fast.
Then on the fourth day, it happened. My dad came out to monitor my progress. He even rode Rusty for a few seconds. He hadn’t been on one since he was a kid, but he still remembered how it was done.
He tried to help me by holding on to the seat and running beside me. But being 70 years old, he was glad that the area didn’t exceed 30 paces. So he just stood back and watched me struggle.
Suddenly, with an outburst of courage that came out of nowhere (and a sign of the cross just in case), I started pedaling. Slowly at first, with my arms grasping the handle bars firmly. I had one focal point: the cracked hollow block on the other wall. I directed the bike toward my target and my footwork went faster and faster. I was a madwoman on wheels.
After a few seconds, I felt it. The wind was rushing past me while I felt a force keeping me perfectly balanced. I felt that Rusty’s wheels weren’t touching the ground anymore, and I was suspended in mid-air. I suddenly had wings; I was flying. The hollow block started growing right before my eyes, but it was as if I couldn’t see it. Nothing mattered anymore except that I was light as a feather. All my senses were merely focused on this sensation of flight.
Like a dream it ended in a flash. Next thing I knew I had crashed into drums and palangganas on the other side of the wall. I had a big, silly smile on my face and had to stop myself from shouting, “I flew! I flew!”
It turned out that I celebrated this victory alone. I had quickly spun around, the stupid grin still stretched from ear to ear, and realized that my dad had gone back inside.
Still, I was delirious. I actually flew. And nobody witnessed me take off.
To this day I can still almost feel it. For a grand total of five seconds, my spirits had lifted higher than Rusty’s reverie could ever go. I felt like how I should’ve as a kid: I felt free.
There is so much joy to be derived from riding a bike. Many of you probably don’t even consider it the least bit uplifting. Heck, you’re probably thinking that I was just a deprived child who can’t do anything. Fine, I don’t know how to whistle, swim, or skip rope. But that’s beside the point. The moral of my rather pathetic life story is this: Never take the littlest joys in life for granted. Because for every one of your skills, there may be tons of people who wish they can do whatever you can.
So please do me and your aunt’s cousin’s ka-mahjong’s manikurista’s daughter a favor. The next time you ride a bike, think of us who may experience how it feels to ride one someday. But for now, fly for us.
