Old Man on a Bicycle

One of the things that riding a bicycle gives me is the happy delusion that I’m not nearly as old as the calendar says. The delusion is reinforced by the fact that the overwhelming majority of my friends from the DC cycling community and blogosphere are much younger than I am. There’s nothing like a pulmonary embolism to bring you back to reality. Last week I was 62 going on 42; this week I’m 62 going on 82.

This is really a slap in the ego. I could be getting down about it but not a day has passed that someone has not sent me well wishes. I’ve had reassuring phone calls, get well cards, emails, Facebook messages, Tweets, Instagram comments, texts, and comments on this blog. I can’t thank you all enough. Three years ago at this time I was mired in depression. Now, when I am faced with something that I can truly get depressed about, depression is nowhere to be found. (I keep on the look out for the bastard, though. Also, I have Klarence on the speed dial just in case.)

As most readers know, I came to know most of my BikeDC friends because Mary Gersema took a picture of me and Little Nellie at the start of the 2010 50 States Ride. A few months later, Mary invited me to come to a bike commuter get together called Friday Coffee Club. Not long after, I met Rachel Cannon and Katie Bolton over a cup of Joe and an apple fritter.  Although my memory is a bit vague about Katie. I may have met her when she volunteered at a rest stop on a local event ride. These two volunteer a lot.

In any case, you will never meet two harder-working, bright, multitalented, funny people in your life. Over the years I’ve watched and listened as they navigated the terrible 20s, the part in our lives when we think we’ll never get a decent career going or establish a firm adult identity. It’s as disorienting as being stuck in the middle of a half million people as I was at the Women’s March last year. How do I get my bearings? How can I move forward, or sideways or make any progress at all? Why am I freaking out? (The answer that I heard at the march from a short, elderly Buddhist woman is simple: Breathe.)

A few weeks ago, before my shit hit the fan, I saw Rachel and Katie at the WABA holiday party. Indefatigable Rachel was volunteering. Katie was beaming, soon to be married and a homeowner.

I got a text the other day from Rachel. She said to keep an eye out for a package. Today it came. I half expected it to contain some fritters. That would have been funny. But the actual content was both funny and buoyed my spirits. The perfect gift. I will wear it with pride and gratitude.

The old man will be back. Take it to the bank.

Thanks Katie and Rachel for making my day.