The high dive represents a rite of passage. Mine was at Jack Carter pool in
, but regardless of where you grew up,
the high dive at the community pool terrorized your small, but important,
youthful world. You gazed for months with
envy at the other children carelessly flipping, tossing, and cannon-balling
over the edge of the scratchy white platform suspended at an unimaginable
height. You carefully calculated the
steps, envisioned yourself being one of them, and finally decided that it was
your time. But as your tiny feet slapped
water on the burning concrete determined to join the ranks, your palms started
sweating and doubt filled your mind.
Questions raced through you like scrolling credits of a movie: What if I fall? What if I hurt myself? And most importantly – What if I do both and everyone laughs at me? As you approach the looming metal ladder with
steps that lead to heaven, your safety-net pulls too hard. With the cartoon devil and angel on your
shoulder tormenting your little brain, you decide to wait for a more opportune
time to risk embarrassment. Slinking
back to the shallow end of the pool you disappointingly sit in the shimmering
water with ego still safely intact. Plano,
That was me. But it wasn't a pool and I wasn't ten. I was approaching my mid-30s. For more than a year, I watched the skinny Dutch women perch elegantly on the backs of their boyfriends' bicycles, riding through the picturesque town of Leiden. Their legs crossed at the ankles, heeled boots pointing daintily at the street, and carefully draping their arm around the waist of the man pedaling. With the longing of an adolescent, I wanted to be one of them. It looked so fun, so romantic, and so. . . free of physical exertion for the lady! Most lovers are not hanging out during the hours of and – it’s mostly a bakfiets (mini-van bike) crowd at that time. I had seen the skill required to hop on the back of a bike only a few times – and the running, giggling girls gave me doubt as to my abilities to replicate the same move. It required the first person to start pedaling in order to balance the bike, and the rider to complete a series of steps and then hop sideways onto the luggage rack on the back. The footwork reminded me of a basketball lay-up: step left, right, left, and then hop up! After time, like any successful athlete, I visualized myself effortlessly completing the steps. But I had yet to practice.
This stunt was not a solo effort, and I doubted my teammate’s ability to execute his task. Now I’ve seen the Dutch carry everything from suitcases, to framed works of art, to Christmas trees one-handed while pedaling down the bike paths. V had trouble balancing his bike with a bottle of wine hanging from one handle bar. We are American and that obviously means that we have acquired no such innate balancing skills over the past 30 years. So thus, my dream had been left unfulfilled, unwilling to risk the seemingly unattainable feat.
Then we saw an 80-year old man pedaling his side-saddling elderly wife in front of our house a few weeks ago. If that’s not mockery, I don’t know what is.
Date night, Saturday night. We planned to take our bikes. There’s no place to park, walking just takes too long, and so it was decided, we’d ride our bikes. As much as I love pedaling my kids around town, my mini-van bike is as sexy as a vegetable. I purposefully put away my thoughts of ever wearing a skirt on a date night again. I know the Dutch cycle with them on, but I just don’t think I’m mentally ready to pull that one off. We say goodbye to the babysitter and close our heavy front door. I’m about to unlock my avocado bike from its spot in the front yard and V gently touches my arm. “You want to try?” he looks at me suspiciously and raises an eyebrow. “Try what?” I cock my head to the side, rolling my eyes. “To ride on the back of my bike?” he says pointedly with a smile. “What? Now!? No way! I’m not ready!” I reply, flustered and smoothing my hair. My hands start sweating and I reflexively look up and down our street to see who is witnessing this ridiculous exchange. “Yes! Now – no anticipation. Let’s just do it,” he says, and I meet his gaze and challenge. He unlocks his bike. Like two kids who jointly agree to a dare but wither during execution, we glance at each other with questions in our eyes. “Should we try it first on the sidewalk?” I ask. “No – look at those bikes parked all over the place. There’s not enough room to get through,” he calculates and shakes his head. We gaze up and down our block and wait for a group of taunting bikes to pass. When the coast was clear, he bravely pedals into the middle of the road. I trot behind him and just like I had envisioned, perform the cadence with wobbly style: left, right, left, hop! Within seconds, I realize that I’m flying through the air with the bravery of my 10-year-old self – I am channeling through this rite of passage and I’m ecstatic at my courageous, youthful accomplishment! “Are you on?” V shouts, disbelieving his own elementary success. “Yes! Yes I am!” I say with amazement. We’ve done it! We’re pedaling down the road at a snail’s pace because, we’re uh, American and V isn’t that fast – but we’re doing it!
We glide through
immaturely speeding up at yellow bike stop lights and avoiding left-hand turns
because we don’t want to stop the rhythm of this beautiful moment (and more
importantly, we don’t want to stop the bike which would force us to repeat the
maneuver in front of expert Dutch eyes.)
We lyrically sweep along the now-familiar sights of our hometown: around
windmills, over canals, and through cobbled alleyways. I berate him for attempting to use hand
signals – “Please! Keep both hands on
your handlebars you’re going to make us fall!” we giggle like schoolchildren. Like a home-cooked meal that you didn’t cook
yourself, after pedaling my kids around town for a year – there is nothing more
beautiful and appreciated than seeing the world go by at the relaxing pace of a
cyclist without actually having to cycle.
The ancient shops and houses dance in the rosy glow of sunset as we
smoothly sashay by. I snuggly wrap my
arm around V’s waist and rest my head on his back. “You’re so light!” he says and I smile at the
seamless ease of the moment. I beam at
my crossed ankles and the green high-heeled boots that accent my
European-trimmed, but skinny-jeaned legs.
I reflect as we pass over the shimmering silver canals, maybe I will
wear those skirts I wishfully imported from the U.S.