When I was 10, my dad signed us up for The Five Boro Bike Tour in New York. It didn’t matter that it was likely I wouldn’t be able to finish a 40 mile ride or that I was inexperienced with riding in crowds. Ever since he had done it the year before with a group of his friends, I begged him to do it together the next year. I had gone to watch the previous year’s race with my mom. We stood on the sidelines and cheered on the riders. While I was intrigued by the multitude of colors and styles of bikes, I felt that I was not part of the experience in a fundamental way. I wanted to be a rider. I believed that only by immersing myself among the other bikes and the sounds of gears shifting would I feel included. Standing on the sidelines was not enough. My dad took my enthusiasm in stride, and when he told me that he had officially registered us for the race, I was overjoyed.
Despite his detailed explanations of what the race would be like, I was not prepared for the stress of riding next to hundreds of other people. One unintentional swerve of my bike could put me in danger of colliding with another rider. The anxiety of this had me gripping my handlebars so tightly that my hands turned white. After riding about 15 miles, I began to experience intense wrist pain. I knew that I had to tell my dad, even though it likely meant that we wouldn’t ride any further.
Before the race, I had promised myself that I was going to complete the whole thing. This kind of goal setting was not uncommon for me. Earlier that year, I had, with complete sincerity, dedicated myself to the task of reading all the books in the world. However, although I had made this promise about the race to myself, it was not for myself. I had my heart set on this goal because I didn’t want my dad to have to end the race early. I knew that he was obviously capable of finishing the whole thing, and I was embarrassed that I might be the one to hold him back.
However, the wrist pain had become so intense that my dad and I were forced to pull over to the side of the road. I explained what had happened, and he immediately suggested that we stop then and there. I was devastated. It didn’t matter that I had ridden 15 miles — by the time we rode back home it would be 20 — which was far more than I had ever done in my life. I felt that I was letting him down. I tried to explain this, but he just praised me for all that I had done. I’m not sure that he fully understood the reasons behind my disappointment then, but after years of riding bikes together, I know that he does now. This disappointment was indicative of broader anxiety that I would suffer with later in life. The tradition of riding bikes with my dad ultimately helped me open up about how I was feeling and ask for help in times when I was deeply unhappy.
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Although my dad’s interest in bikes began with road riding, when I was in sixth grade, he started to spend more time exploring mountain biking. After my brother and I went on a ride with him, I decided that road riding was for me, but my brother realized he loved the thrill of hurtling across roots and descending rocky hills. My dad found a mountain biking team for my brother to join and the two of them became deeply involved with it. My dad committed himself to training to become an assistant coach for the team, and my brother dedicated himself to training programs to increase his performance. Despite the time and effort that the team required, my dad always encouraged me to go for road rides with him. When I would agree, we would set out together and push ourselves. I would often ask to increase the mileage and we would attempt steep climbs.
Despite the fact that I preferred road riding, there were times when I would agree to a mountain bike ride. I enjoyed listening to my dad and brother instruct me on how to best descend a portion of the trail and heeded their tips about keeping my pedals level to avoid hitting rocks.
However, as I got older, I started to turn down opportunities to go for bike rides with my dad. I had become more and more obsessed with my academic performance, and I felt that, in order to succeed, I had no time for anything else. I went to a rigorous high school where it often felt like I was falling short of the expectations set for students. I set unattainable standards for myself and I would never reach a point where I was satisfied with the work I had completed. I always felt that I could do more, do better.
I would sit at my desk for hours in tense silence trying to craft the perfect sentence for the conclusion of an English essay while the rest of my family embarked on a day hike or bike ride. I knew they were confused about why I couldn’t stand up and leave my overheated room where whispers telling me my work wasn’t good enough haunted me. But, at this point in my life, I couldn’t explain to them that if I left my room to do something fun, I would feel that I had failed a responsibility to myself. And so, I remained behind as they got to go outside.
It was on one of these weekends, when I couldn’t tear myself away from studying for an upcoming calculus test, that my dad came into my room. He proclaimed that we were going on a mountain bike ride. It wasn’t really a question. I knew that I could refuse, of course, but I didn’t want to see the worry seep into his face. I had to leave this room or face uncomfortable questions that I didn’t have the energy to answer. I gave a vague nod, and we got into the car to drive to a nearby trailhead. We were silent for the beginning of the drive, but while watching the trees pass, tears started collecting in my eyes. Looking out the window and not directly at his face, I started talking about the stress that I felt.
When mountain biking, my mind empties of all other thoughts because of the concentration that it takes to successfully ride. I know my dad experiences this also. It seemed easier to talk about the stress and unhappiness that I was feeling when it would be a short conversation, something that couldn’t be continued on the trail. There wouldn’t be endless questions asked and time dedicated in trying to completely comprehend how I was feeling. My dad listened and nodded when I described my stress. He offered comforting words of advice but, as I had predicted, when we started to ride, we were both silent and let the feeling of being on a bike overtake us.
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Although my favorite part of riding bikes with my dad used to be the actual ride, it is now the car rides that we take in order to get to a mountain biking trail. It is on these car rides that I have had deep and important conversations with him about how I want to live my life and the fears that I have about myself. Biking was one of the first places where I was confronted with the type of perfectionism that drove me to set unrealistic standards for myself. The goal I set of finishing The Five Boro race was indicative of a tendency to force myself to believe that goals, which were in reality unattainable, were achievable. When I ultimately failed to meet them, I blamed myself entirely.
Biking was not left untouched by my desire to achieve the unattainable, but because of my dad and his quiet acceptance of my feelings, it also became a place where I could share how I was feeling. Although it started out with talking about how I was stressed for a test, the talks with my dad on our way to ride bikes helped me realize that I needed to openly discuss the depth of the sadness that I was feeling. The talks that began in the car with my dad turned into talks with both of my parents and ultimately into talks with a therapist.
Although I am not an avid biker in my everyday life, I will forever cherish the rides that I take with my dad and the car rides to different locations. It is in these moments that I feel the safest talking about myself and asking for help. I don’t have to be defined by my anxiety, and biking with my dad is one of the fundamental reasons I was able to understand how to accept this part of myself.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Until our next car and bike ride.
Statement Columnist Olivia Kane can be reached at ohkane@umich.edu