The middle distance
Had a little tumble on my bike this week when a Citi Biker plowed into me on a left hand turn.
The sheer number of miles I bike each week makes me an expert, I figure, and keeps me safe. But after the fall I was shaken and filled with doubt, imagining bikes and cars zooming at me from every angle.
But here’s the bigger danger: that my tumble will result in not biking, as happened when I hit a taxicab door that swung into my path years ago, and left me too afraid to bike for more than a decade.
So it is with writing, lately. It's not like I've had an accident but my trusted first reader and editor friend has had to scale back on editing my work as her own work calls. I've abandoned several blog posts this week just as I abandoned several blog ideas before keeping this one behind-the-scenes for a year. I miss her clear feedback, which gave me confidence, and I even considered quitting.
It’s a good thing I’ve fallen before.
I know I need to focus less on zooming cars, reader opinions, and the potential of falling, or failing, and find the middle distance, like a juggler who trains her eyes on a spot between the pins in order to keep them in the air.
When I fell off my bike, a few people moved in to help me but I stood up quickly, and tugged the bike to the side of the road by myself.
“Are you okay?” Mr. Citi Bike said.
As I looked at the young man with curly hair and anxious, friendly eyes, the fall came back in a snap—the stopped cars at the well-timed red light, the thud of the bike as it hit the pavement, and my sporty skirt askew.
I couldn’t speak, but managed to nod, because I was okay, only scraped and unnerved, but not broken.
I brushed off my elbow and knees, adjusted my helmet and skirt, and peddled on.