Ride On

The weather in Southern California turned windy and rainy, so I did what any self-respecting Canadian would do, and went to rent a bike. I layered up, and headed out with my purple gloves, green anorak, black studio crops, knee-high polka dot socks, and pink Sketchers. I walked into the bike rental store and it turned out that their specialty was electric bikes. Their catch line was: “The Electric Bike: Both Eco-Friendly & Fashionable”. My kind of store!

They pulled out a dazzler for me: a pumpkin-orange frame, with shapely silver handlebars and black grips, a large wire basket, and a wide-bottom seat, just perfect for my derriére.  The tires were a hybrid between a bike tire and a motorcycle tire. And with the electric assist device mounted onto the rear wheel carrier, the bike weighed a ton. I was neither sleek, nor aerodynamic, but I had done that before.

When I was in my early twenties, I cycled innumerable miles across the coast of Oregon and into California. Sporting brightly colored and ridiculously coordinated cycling gear; I rode my 18-speed Diamondback a minimum of 110 km every day, for 25 days. That trip, taken with five guys and one other girl, was many things, not the least of which was illuminating. I found the edges of my reserve, and vacillated between melting down (or “hitting the wall”, as athletes like to say) and pushing through to a deeper reserve I didn’t know existed.

I am now South of San Diego, getting some solar-assist—my own motor sputtering, chugging, and hitting the wall, during this seasonal darkness. It only seemed natural that my bike ride today should include a little assistance. I eagerly signed on.  During my brief orientation at Pedago Bikes, I was told that with full throttle the bike could go over twenty. I was initially reluctant to use the throttle as it seemed so wrong—for wimps really, not finely tuned athletes like myself. But, after about eight minutes of pedaling that Goliath of bikes, I was exhausted, and I had only made it around the block!

As I made my way toward the Coastal Highway, I started to play with the throttle. I felt like a kid with a new toy. Once on the highway, I put the bike in its highest gear (six) and then nudged the throttle. I kept my legs going, and even shifted my body weight side-to-side, so it would look as if I was working really hard. I was starting to understand this pedal-assist thing, you could maintain some work, and give some away. Brilliant!

Now, comfortable on the highway, and feeling a bit like a glorified loser, I opened up the throttle, and sailed up a hill. In that moment I knew what it felt like to be Wonder Woman. It was thrilling! Sure, Wonder Woman had an invisible plane, but me, I could reach speeds of 20 mph on this electric bike—taking crime catching to a whole new level!

Prior to this, I had only used the power of my own body to move a bicycle through space; moreover I had spent a significant period of my early adult years on my bike, so I knew what the real cyclists were going through. Therefore, there was a line that I wasn’t willing to cross. I wouldn’t pass a real cyclist, who was bearing down on a hill, on my electric bike. That would be like the turtle passing the hare in an electric scooter. Not kosher. Also, I couldn’t bring myself to give the traditional four-fingers-off-the-handlebar wave to the cyclists who were going the other way. I felt like a fraud, but I was also afraid to lift my fingers off the handlebars, lest they lurch and deposit me (and my finery) on the roadside (in a heap of embarrassment).

Later, on the way home, I had several lights to stop and start for, which gave me a chance to perfect a “standing throttle start”, which I can only imagine is like a water skiing entry from the dock. Timing and body position are everything! The “highlight” of the trip occurred while I was stopped at a red light. As I waited for the light to change, I heard a “beep-beep”. I looked around, wondering if I was blocking the right-hand turn lane. There was a silver Honda Element two lanes over; the passenger window was down. The driver was intently checking us out. I wondered if the giant RENT ME sign attached to the bike had caught his attention. He called out to me, “Nice tires”. I moved my head, as if in slow motion, toward the front tire, and simply nodded. “Awesome bike!” he yelled”. Like the glorified loser that I was, I just gave him the thumbs up, and a stupid grin. The light changed, and he drove away waving. Clearly we had made his day, if not the other way around.

Ride on!

Food for fodder

This week, I sealed my bid for “worst mother of the year” (I know it’s only the 10^th day of the new year, but I have always been an over-achiever). An old friend called out of the blue to offer her help. I was confused. She said something like, “I am not sure what your schedule is like these days, but I could help drive your kids to school.” Huh? My mind raced, trying to figure out why she would be offering her help. What had I done? What had she heard? She filled the momentary silence with this explanation, “It’s just that I’ve seen Yohannes walking to school alone, I gave him a ride a few days ago. I know how busy it is in the mornings trying to get everyone out the door.” 

Ohhhhh…… I thought—my wayward son.

Yohannes is in grade five; he is capable, strong and independent in many ways. However, hovering on the inner edge of puberty, he has lost his capacity to function in the morning, manage time (or even tell time), and his distractibility has morphed through his entire being, and into every moment of his life.

Living in a house where AD/HD prevails is part hilarity and part absurdity. We have had in-the-field training with more-than-our-share of children; we see them leave a room, with a purpose, and then—never return. When the search ensues to see what happened, they are usually engaged in some other task, having completely forgotten their original mission. (Your mission, should you choose to accept it is…PAY ATTENTION!)

We had a rather impromptu family dinner party this week, which was prompted by our older daughter changing her flight by a day, and an impulse-buy on my part. I had bought a Swiss Raclette, and was so excited to gather around it and create a meal together. Our raclette consists of a cast-iron grill that hovers overtop of an electric heating element, and small removable pans that tuck in, beneath the grill. You can simultaneously grill meat/veggies/seafood, while cooking sumptuous side dishes of veggies, herbs, spices and cheese.

The only way that we could have dinner on the table (literally) at a reasonable hour was to get everyone to pitch in. Everyone was assigned a job. Yohannes’ job was to get an extension cord and plug it into the raclette, and then tape down the cords. Easy: walk to the garage, get the extension cord, stop at the office on the way back and get the tape, plug everything in, and tape it down. Done.

Not so much.

Yohannes walked through the quiet room, where all the accouterments of yoga and fitness live. He picked up the foam roller, and started using it as a sword against invisible enemies. Earlier, he had dropped his coat and lunch bag on the kitchen floor. I called him back to put those things away. He picked up his lunch bag and put it on the counter, and then he saw me putting the raclette together, and after a flurry of questions, he remembered his task and strode off to the garage. He came back with a yellow, fifty-foot cord. I stared at it. “Was that the shortest one?” I asked. He looked at it, shrugged his shoulders, dropped it, and walked away. I called out to him, “Take your coat with you.” He kept going. When he came back, he had an orange, fifty-foot cord. Great, we now had enough extension cord to run it out to our table on the lower deck—if only it wasn’t covered in two feet of snow! Resigned, I asked him to plug it in, and tape it down.

I returned to peeling potatoes. Kristin and Raad chopped vegetables. Faven prepared a salad. Laurèn had retreated to the quiet of her bedroom. Yohannes drifted once more to my fitness equipment and then re-entered the kitchen with his arm forced into a tightly wrapped foam mat.

“Yohannes, what about the tape?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, where is it?”

“Okay, I need you to listen.”

“Okay.”

“Put my fitness stuff away and don’t touch it! Okay?? The tape is in the office, in the drawers right under the window. There is a drawer that is marked ‘tape’ on the left hand side—you will find it in there.”

“Okay.”

He took the foam mat with him. His coat was still on the floor next to the table. Both extension cords lay abandoned near the table leg. Moments later he rolled himself back into the kitchen on top of a large, grey exercise ball. I didn’t notice him at first, because my back was turned as I prepared the meat. But, as I turned around and saw him performing his circus feats across the kitchen, I walked over, put my hand on the ball, and touched my boy on his shoulder.

“Did you get the tape?” I asked.

“Uhhh…. no,” he quietly answered.

“How is it that you have my exercise ball?”

“I found it in the office under your desk.”

“Please. Put. It. Back. Get. The. Tape.”

He started rolling back toward the office, and his older sister Kristin, who had already offered to buy me a ringmaster hat and whip, could take no more. “Yohannes, didn’t you hear your mom tell you to leave the exercise equipment alone?”  He paused, looked at her, and then went back to exactly what he was doing. She abandoned her orderly vegetables, and went over to “help” him out.

Finally, he came into the kitchen carrying a roll of green painters tape. That will do. He started to tape down the cords. He ran out of tape. He put the empty cardboard tape roll onto his arm. He looked at it. He said, “I’m going to paint it red.” He left. His coat still lay on the floor; the cord still lay snaked across the table and floor.  It had been fourty-five minutes since the original request was made for him to find the extension cord and tape.

He then returned to the table with a painting palette, a paintbrush, several paints and a container of glitter. He began to paint his cardboard armband with zest—ensuring that the raclette grill was now sprinkled in pink glitter and the rosewood table smeared in paint. I watched him for a long moment, and then as my shoulders sank over my collarbones, I went and plugged the cords in and taped them down myself.

When my budding artist was done, I asked him to clean up. He brought the palette over to the kitchen sink and then turned the water on full blast, and the paint took to the air splattering the dish drying rack, both sinks, and a good portion of the countertops. I could have screamed. At this point, Kristin simply burst into laughter. I slid in beside Yohannes to mitigate the damage.

So, as I paused on the phone that morning with the concerned friend, knowing that Yohannes wasn’t walking to school because I was too busy, I was sharply reminded of the unwritten contract we have as mothers. Somewhere in the fine print, written in invisible ink, it says, “Meet them where they are. Delight in the uniqueness of being. Guide them toward their goals. Love them through the mess. And take frequent breaks.”

Amen to that!