A Lazy Way To Bike

“If you’re going to lie down, why not stay home and take a nap?”

“Looks like a pretty lazy way to ride a bike.”

“I wish I could just lie down on my bike.”

At least once every couple of weeks some well-meaning rider tosses out this kind of casual comment as I’m cranking along. I get that they’re mostly just making conversation, but biking alone gives me a lot of time to think.

So I wonder:

Why don’t we consider the possible impact of our words? When I started riding I was really self-conscious. I was fortunate to be surrounded by people who understood and provided the positive feedback I needed to keep me going. A couple of misguided comments, no matter how innocent, might have been enough to send me back into hiding.

Sticks and stones break bones. Words break more fragile things like hearts and spirits.

Why do we believe we need to say everything we think? It’s the same question we should ask before we hit SEND on that tweet, text, or email. Does that thought really need to be shared?

We’re so much more connected than ever before. That means so many more chances to be kind and helpful. If we can’t help, why not at least avoid being hurtful?

Why are we so certain about our initial impressions? We all know things are usually deeper, more complex, and more interesting than they appear. Why do we so frequently form an opinion without investigating or asking a single question?

What I’ve learned:

Most of these folks don’t mean any harm. I usually just smile, unless I’m really hot or tired. Then I mutter something decidedly un-Christian and spend the next few minutes wondering why I can’t be more patient.

Innocent intentions might not matter. The person who’s taking a risk, trying something new, might be a single misplaced comment away from quitting. Whether they’re biking or stepping through the door of your church, you might never see the unintended consequence of your words.

Note to self: Think twice before you casually lob that sarcastic remark at someone who might not get your unique brand of “humor.”

I love it when someone approaches with authentic curiosity. This happens with kids and with adults who’ve retained their childlike sense of wonder, and it’s not just about wheelchairs and handcycles.

Some people ask what you’re up to and you feel like you’re being interrogated. Others invite you to tell your story in a way that makes it safe and comfortable.

There’s a huge difference between “That’s strange” and “That’s remarkable.” I can’t explain the distinction, but you can feel it immediately.

The people making those remarks don’t understand how much engineering went into my bike. They don’t bother wondering about the  complex biomechanics of my riding position. They’d be surprised to know I’ve cranked my bike more and 2200 miles this year.

Let’s be more mindful of my thoughts and my off-the-cuff conclusions. Somewhere, somebody’s taking the first step toward following a dream.

Let’s help.

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