I don’t remember learning to ride the bike. I wish I did. I wish I could recall my
father’s look of joy as I biked for the first time; Legs bruised and battered from failed attempts, I would soar on the bicycle, free, happy. Maybe my dad never taught me how to ride a bike, maybe I just had the divine ability to ride a bicycle from birth.
My memories of biking began with I fell into a pond while riding my first bike and Grandpa had to fish me out. The pond had the faint stench of rotting fish and the musty odor of leaves in decay. Drifting towards the beginning of autumn, the afternoon sunshine still held the residual warmth of a diminishing summertime.
Cycling thirty kilometers an hour in the thoroughfare of Beijing at midnight is a dangerous task.
“Wear a helmet this time.” Mom would always say.
But I always end up wearing my maroon Yankees hat from a childhood friend. I have to wear the hat backward when I bike; if I wear it properly, the hat will catch in the wind and fly straight off of my head.
Dad bought “his” first performance road bike a couple of years ago. He probably wanted to lose some weight at the time; to get rid of the beer belly my mom relentlessly bullied him about. But recently, I have practically hijacked my father’s hobby and his bicycle to become a cyclist. (He still has his beer belly).
The Giant Defy adv3 is a modest bike at best. Not one to boast to other cyclists; It’s actually a gravel bike. Manual gear changes, good tire clearance, and a sweet carbon composite frame. Maybe just a touch less aerodynamic than I would have preferred.
Fat cyclists make the best windbreakers. Albeit they are quite slow. Air resistance and aerodynamics are important in cycling: the faster you are, the more aero you need to be, the more aero you are, the faster you become. The act of cycling is the relentless battle against the gale. Cyclists are at war with everything that impedes speed.
Chang’an Avenue, also called “eternal peace street” is a stretch of endless asphalt that cuts straight across the center of Beijing. It is a sacred convergence of tourists, cyclists, and traffic police.
First excursion to Chang’an Avenue, outing with childhood friend. I was unfamiliar with the route to the thoroughfare. Crossing through the spider-like network of residential areas, the sun held its breath in the unrelenting afternoon heat. Her arms had natural hyperextension, they bent slightly more than the normal 180 degrees when she rested weight on them while cycling.
“Stop making fun of my arms,” she would say.
Are hyperextended arms more aerodynamic? I started to notice more and more people with hyperextended arms on my excursions to Chang’an Avenue. Something I’ve never been aware of, hiding in plain sight all this time; what else could be hiding?
Second excursion on Chang’an Avenue, outing with traffic police. Traffic police are another force against achieving cycling Nirvana. Traffic police cannot be reasoned with. They despise us cyclists.
The man was wearing a pale blue dress shirt. The black epaulets contrasted nicely with the standard-issue traffic police uniform. He held a cheap megaphone that repeated a pre-recorded message. He had too many wrinkles on his tan face for someone of his age.
“Excuse me, do you know how I can get to the China World Trade Center?” I asked,
“How the hell am I supposed to know? Now get out of the way.”
Did traffic police know how to ride a bicycle? Did those bastards take even a single moment to consider the predicament of us cyclists? Do they know how hard it is to keep your cool on a blistering July evening? As I asked myself these questions, I began to despise the traffic police. Constantly foiling my pursuit of speed and freedom. The image of hyperextended arms slowly emerges from my mind. I ask myself another question: Did I know what it was like to be traffic police?
Did I know what it felt like to be cooked under the July sun?
Did I know what it felt like to die at forty-two from pollution and basal cell skin cancer?
I have a looming suspicion that I will meet my makers soon if I keep wearing my Yankees hat while cycling. The human body has a jello-like consistency when put in contact with a speeding minivan. My parents had to sit me down and give me a stern talking-to to convince me not to enter cycling Valhalla.
Final Excursion on Chang’an Avenue, outing with me. We had garlic scapes stir fry at home that night. “Stay safe,” mom said. Dad was on a business trip.
Illuminated by a thin veil of weak streetlamps, the once-crowded space during the day was replaced quietly with a profound darkness. Like when mom used to turn off the lights quietly as I pretended to be asleep. What do animals do when the lights are turned off? What would a Hainan gibbon do under the tranquility of darkness?
Wheels thin like blades dancing elegantly across the asphalt, I cycle deeper into the night. I pass a children’s hospital, no children in sight. Could a sick child ride a road bike? Maybe it’s better not to have these thoughts. My shadow contracts and extends under the warm shower of countless streetlights.
An eternal rainbow marks the beginning of the west end of Chang’an Avenue. Not a figurative rainbow, but a physical, steel rainbow gate that arches over the avenue. Many cyclists rest under the rainbow, like little cycling leprechauns in skin-tight cycling jerseys digging eagerly for nonexistent cycling gold.
There will always be a skinny kid faster than you when you cycle here. Maybe several if it’s not your lucky day. It is as endlessly frustrating as it is impressive. I try to keep up with them, but they usually lose me after a couple of kilometers.
I almost met cycling Jesus at the fifth traffic light on Chang’an Avenue. The carbon wheels of my bicycle glided to a halt at the pedestrian crossing. A sea of cyclists were illuminated dimly under the warm streetlamps on Chang’an Avenue. The black and yellow asphalt was clumsily dotted with skin-tight jerseys, Trek and Merida bikes, specialized helmets, and red taillights.
As the light turned green, I sped off into the deserted street. With two hundred cyclists around, what were the odds that I would be the fastest? Where were the skinny, speedy kids who usually zoom past me?
I was alone.
Cycling alone on Chang’an Avenue is a weird experience. Imagine a seafood place without oysters or a sandstorm without sand. Something wasn’t right.
Where does my life end and my death begin? Maybe I did meet cycling Jesus back at that fifth traffic light.
Death is the complete and irreversible loss of consciousness. The permanence of death and the insecurity of the afterlife drive people to fear it. People see it as the expiration of human existence, but what if death was not an expiration, but a lonely continuation of an alternate life? Maybe death is just a world without people. A life without others.
Maybe I’m already dead?
So, let’s say I did die at the fifth traffic light. I am now alone in the world. I still feel alive, I’m still breathing, and my arms are still sore. There isn’t anything different about me, except being dead. But there is a fundamental change to the world I reside in: Nobody is residing in this afterlife. Is a world without people a world worth living in? A world worth dying for?
My Yankees hat lay on the asphalt with my lifeless body and the wreckage of shattered carbon. The maroon hue of my hat dyed to a deeper red with my fresh, cranial blood. What could have killed me? Was it blunt impact trauma to the head from a stop sign? Could it be internal organ damage from a speeding Subaru?
The transition between life and death does not have to be violent. Even if the death itself is violent. One could die without even realizing it. Besides, how would the victim of a cycling accident notice their death if they flew head-first into a brick wall?
I didn’t die that night. I was inches away from falling off a cliff while climbing the Himalayas at nine with my father. But cycling tonight somehow felt closer to death than my hike in Tibet.
It was midnight when I knocked on the door of my home. I didn’t bring a key; a key isn’t aero. My mom answered the door, I would have hugged her if I died, But I lived. So I just complained about the traffic police and went to sleep.
I did, in fact, have to learn how to ride the bike. My dad called a couple of days ago, I told him I was writing a story about cycling, and he brought up my first bike, my training wheels. I earned the skill to ride a bicycle through my own hard work in this life. It was not a God-given talent present since my birth. As an old man, filled with regret, waiting to die alone, I will still be able to look back on my time cycling, and smile with honest joy in my heart; Legs bruised and battered, lasting until the end of this life, and the start of my death.
Consider the comments above, here's a deepseeked version with corrected grammar:
I don’t remember learning to ride a bike. I wish I did. I wish I could recall my father’s look of joy as I pedaled for the first time—legs bruised and battered from failed attempts, finally soaring on the bicycle, free and happy. Maybe my dad never taught me. Maybe I was born with the divine ability to ride a bike.
My earliest biking memory is falling into a pond while riding my first bicycle. Grandpa had to fish me out. The pond reeked of rotting fish and the musty decay of leaves. It was late summer, drifting into autumn, and the afternoon sun still carried the lingering warmth of the fading season.
Cycling at thirty kilometers an hour on Beijing’s streets at midnight is a dangerous endeavor.
“Wear a helmet this time,” Mom would always say.
But I usually ended up wearing my maroon Yankees hat, a gift from a childhood friend. I had to wear it backward; otherwise, the wind would snatch it off my head.
A few years ago, Dad bought his first performance road bike. He probably wanted to shed some weight—specifically, the beer belly Mom relentlessly teased him about. But recently, I’ve practically hijacked his hobby and his bicycle. (He still has the beer belly, by the way.)
The Giant Defy Adv 3 is a modest bike at best. Not something to boast about to other cyclists. It’s technically a gravel bike: manual gear changes, good tire clearance, and a sweet carbon composite frame. It’s just a touch less aerodynamic than I’d prefer.
Fat cyclists make excellent windbreakers, though they’re quite slow. In cycling, air resistance and aerodynamics are everything. The faster you go, the more aerodynamic you need to be—and the more aerodynamic you are, the faster you become. Cycling is a relentless battle against the wind. Cyclists are at war with everything that slows them down.
Chang’an Avenue, also known as “Eternal Peace Street,” is an endless stretch of asphalt cutting through the heart of Beijing. It’s a sacred convergence of tourists, cyclists, and traffic police.
My first excursion to Chang’an Avenue was with a childhood friend. I didn’t know the route well. We navigated through a spiderweb of residential areas under the unrelenting afternoon sun. Her arms had a natural hyperextension, bending slightly beyond the normal 180 degrees when she rested her weight on them while cycling.
“Stop making fun of my arms,” she’d say.
I wondered: Are hyperextended arms more aerodynamic? On later rides, I began noticing more people with hyperextended arms. Something I’d never paid attention to before, now hiding in plain sight. What else had I missed?
My second excursion was an outing with traffic police. They’re another obstacle to achieving cycling nirvana. Traffic police cannot be reasoned with. They despise cyclists.
One officer wore a pale blue dress shirt, his black epaulets contrasting sharply with the standard-issue uniform. He held a cheap megaphone blaring a pre-recorded message. His tan face was etched with too many wrinkles for his age.
“Excuse me, do you know how to get to the China World Trade Center?” I asked.
“How the hell should I know? Now get out of the way,” he snapped.
Do traffic police even know how to ride a bike? Do they understand the struggles of cyclists? Do they know how hard it is to stay calm on a blistering July evening? As I pondered these questions, I began to resent them. They were constantly thwarting my pursuit of speed and freedom. But then another thought crept in: Did I know what it was like to be a traffic police officer?
Did I know what it felt like to bake under the July sun?
Did I know what it felt like to die at forty-two from pollution or skin cancer?
I have a sinking feeling that I’ll meet my end soon if I keep wearing my Yankees hat while cycling. The human body has a jello-like consistency when hit by a speeding minivan. My parents once sat me down for a stern talk to convince me not to enter cycling Valhalla prematurely.
My final excursion on Chang’an Avenue was a solo ride. We’d had garlic scapes stir-fry for dinner that night. “Stay safe,” Mom said. Dad was away on a business trip.
The avenue, usually bustling, was now cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by faint streetlamps. It reminded me of when Mom would quietly turn off the lights as I pretended to sleep. What do animals do when the lights go out? What would a Hainan gibbon do under the cover of darkness?
My thin wheels glided across the asphalt as I cycled deeper into the night. I passed a children’s hospital—no children in sight. Could a sick child ride a road bike? Maybe it’s better not to dwell on such thoughts. My shadow stretched and contracted under the warm glow of countless streetlights.
At the west end of Chang’an Avenue stands an eternal rainbow—a steel archway spanning the road. Cyclists often rest beneath it, like leprechauns in skin-tight jerseys searching for nonexistent gold.
There’s always a skinny kid faster than you here. Maybe several, if it’s not your lucky day. It’s endlessly frustrating yet impressive. I try to keep up, but they usually leave me behind after a few kilometers.
I almost met cycling Jesus at the fifth traffic light. My carbon wheels glided to a halt at the pedestrian crossing. A sea of cyclists waited under the warm streetlamps, their skin-tight jerseys, Trek and Merida bikes, specialized helmets, and red taillights dotting the black and yellow asphalt.
When the light turned green, I sped off into the deserted street. With two hundred cyclists around, what were the odds I’d be the fastest? Where were the skinny, speedy kids who usually zoomed past me?
I was alone.
Cycling alone on Chang’an Avenue feels strange—like a seafood place without oysters or a sandstorm without sand. Something was off.
Where does life end and death begin? Maybe I did meet cycling Jesus at that fifth traffic light. Death is the irreversible loss of consciousness, and its permanence terrifies people. But what if death isn’t an end, but a lonely continuation in an alternate existence? A world without people. A life without others.
Maybe I’m already dead.
If I did die at the fifth traffic light, I’m now alone in this world. I still feel alive—I’m breathing, my arms are sore, and nothing about me seems different except for being dead. But the world has changed: no one else is here. Is a world without people worth living in? Worth dying for?
My Yankees hat lay on the asphalt beside my lifeless body and the shattered remains of my carbon bike. The maroon fabric deepened to a darker red, stained with my blood. What killed me? Blunt force trauma from a stop sign? Internal injuries from a speeding Subaru?
The transition between life and death doesn’t have to be violent, even if death itself is. One could die without realizing it. How would a cyclist know they’d died if they flew headfirst into a brick wall?
I didn’t die that night. Years ago, I came inches from falling off a cliff while hiking the Himalayas with my father at age nine. But cycling tonight felt closer to death than that near-miss in Tibet.
It was midnight when I knocked on my door. I hadn’t brought a key—keys aren’t aerodynamic. Mom answered. If I had died, I would’ve hugged her. But I lived, so I just complained about the traffic police and went to sleep.
I did, in fact, have to learn how to ride a bike. Dad called a few days ago. When I told him I was writing a story about cycling, he reminded me of my first bike and its training wheels. I earned the skill through hard work—it wasn’t a God-given talent. As an old man, filled with regret and waiting to die alone, I’ll still look back on my cycling days and smile with genuine joy. My legs, bruised and battered, will carry me to the end of this life and into the beginning of my death.