Through a Fresh Window

I was riding down a hill in order to get to the designated bike path. My pedal assist requires only a few rotations to make it down a nearly mile long stretch from my house to the closest, safest entrance to the Manhan Rail Trail. The sun was shining; not too hot. It was a day like every other in the bucolic hills of western Massachusetts.

After several weeks, instead of being comfortable on the saddle, I still white knuckled it over the handlebars trying not to panic while I attempted to stay inside the too narrow bike lane. I talked myself out of pulling over and giving up, from calling for rescue and anxiety-blaming my husband for not installing the hitch so I could drive to a safer place to mount and ride. Yep, a trip like every other.

While I tried to remember which way would bump the gear up or which would bring it down, I tried not to fixate on the number on the odometer, or think about bigger vehicles over my shoulder with drivers that were surely texting, or the poor pedestrian who might cross my path chasing after an errant ball.

If I can conjure it, it won’t happen. This is a philosophy I have cleaved to, but upon recent further examination of all sorts of personal philosophies — this one also turns out to be a vat load of bullshit.

I panicked once going up the side of a particularly safe portion of a glacier in Iceland. If my family hadn’t been watching, I’d have turned around. But I don’t think it was the acknowledgement of danger that kept the gravel from sliding out beneath my feet. Gravity and my rudimentary balancing skills had to have played played a larger role.

With an unpleasant reality that choked me like a bug in the throat, I saw how anxiety has streaked every window and blinded me to nearly every good time I could have had. Possible and inevitable annihilation ring loud and on repeat, as they did for my mother. And her mother before her.

They convinced me that the volume and width of a person’s worry can be prescriptive and is directly correlated to the depth of love they have for you. Except it was more about how little faith in the world they held.

“You could have fallen through the space between the platform and the subway. They’re making the gap wider all the time. You have to be an olympian to make it across. Then I thought someone pushed you onto the tracks. And what if you didn’t have enough money to get on the train in the first place?” Is it mothers in general, or is it something more genetic? 

Back on the road to the bike path I hadn’t crashed, blown a flat, caught my leg, gone flying over the front of the machine so far. In fact, every time I put my fat ass in the saddle, I’d grown steadier. What if I had enough faith in myself to concentrate on the breeze? Is that lavender in bloom? I’ve built the skills I need not to die. Barring an unforeseen meteor or bear or something.

Stomach and teeth clenched, I kept my hand hovering on the brake but I leaned back just a little, felt the warm breeze and a bit of excited joy rush through my hair.

In this wonky world where truth is not a given, I’m demanding evidence in order to keep myself miserable.

I smiled at a mourning dove pecking at the grass and a dog playing in a yard in gorgeous relief, the mountain lush and steady on my right. When I heard the car rushing towards me from behind, I kept my lane despite doubting it was possible.

It was like looking out a freshly cleaned window and delighting in previously obscured details. I’d enjoyed my rides, but in retrospect, in having done a set-out-to-do, despite the acid voices of self doubt. The whooshing rhythm of my pedaling switched my focus, injecting a whole new level to my ride.

Which brings me to this newsletter, The Kate Chronicles. Most of my writing and living was done in a defensive posture, wanting to earn my place, wanting to say something that would shake someone up. It is an occupational hazard in a profession where the more you write, the more rejection you’ll face, all of it policed by MFAs with little actual nuanced experience. 

If you’ve propped yourself at the window seat of this latest iteration of me, you know. I’ve mustered enough vulnerability and honesty to sing in my own, unique voice. Now I want to enjoy the concert. 

We’re ants scrambling up the side of our hill, fortifying it, hoping someone doesn’t happen by and crush us. But a storm will come no matter how big the trench is. A stampede is a stampede. 

The difference between dying if you wind up to the left of the white line of the bike lane, and feeling the precious summer breeze cool your face as the light sparkles in the trees, is a thing I will be forever grateful to experience.

Thank you for coming along on this journey. I hope you’ll sign up and invite your friends along for the ride.

With the voices quieted, I’ve stopped wasting time staring out fear streaked windows. I really hope I’m right about this. In addition to this launch of the Kate Chronicles, I’ve just adopted two puppies.