Changing

I sold my bike a couple of weeks ago, which, if I'm being honest, was one of the more painful parts of this whole move to New York. I've written about my bike plenty, especially in this post in which I closed saying I'd accidently left my bike in my old apartment when I moved, leaning against the wall in the foyer. Well, what I didn't say in that post — what happened afterwards was a series of calls and so forth which led to my friend katy picking up my bike and storing it at her place until she had time to drive it out to the storage unit in the suburbs where I was keeping all of my belongings until I decided for sure where to live in New York.

I have to admit, seeing my bike unloaded from the truck in Manhattan and carried up to my apartment in March was a joyous sight. I had grand plans for that bike and me. We were to ride all over the city together, through all five boroughs on all the routes already mapped out by bikes and cyclists before us. We would explore new paths and see things we hadn't yet imagined. It was two or three weeks after my bike was delivered before it was actually nice enough outside to take it for a spin. I dressed special for our first NYC ride, selecting clothes that would allow for both movement and a high cuteness factor. I ate a light lunch so I wouldn't feel too full on the journey and I packed an apple and a bottle of water in my bag for later. And then I was off! I picked up my bike, opened the front door and started down the two flights of stairs, with thoughts of the warm breeze through my hair propelling me forward. And then my whole world basically came crashing down around in me in one moment as I realized my bike was just to big, my staircase too narrow, and my arms too weak to carry the bike down the stairs. I knew if I mustered all my strength and really stretched myself into awkward positions, I could possibly get it down once, but how would i get it back up? And what about the next time I wanted to ride? Sadly, there's no storage place in our building, no foyer like I used to have in my apartment in Chicago, no rack on the street or anything to lock it to, and even if there were, the chances of a bike surviving on the streets of midtown for more than a day or two without being swiped by some ne'er-do-well or a tourist wanting a souvenir of the city were slim-to-none. So I brought my bike back inside and cried a bit and then I leaned it against the bedroom wall for about 2 or 3 weeks and tried not to think about it. Finally, I couldn't stand the silent taunting anymore — the physical representation of something I think is one of life's biggest cruelties: no matter how much you gain in a transition, no matter how much a move — whether figurative or literal — propels you forward, there's always a sacrifice — there's always something you have to give up and miss and long for.

So I sold my bike and the day the girl and her boyfriend from Craigslist came to pick it up, I wanted to tell her how much I loved it, how it changed the trajectory of my last year in Chicago and that she should care for and love it as much as I did and maybe she'd reap the same happiness. That's all bullshit, really. The bike didn't change anything for me any more than any other bike might have, and there's no reason I can't just get a different sort of bike — a fold-up one, perhaps, and continue with my grand plan of taking on New York City two wheels at a time. It's not so much the bike that was hard to let go of, of course, but what I imagined to be the last connection to my old way of life: the apartment with its foyer and closet space and girly paint colors. The friends who all lived nearby and the beach and the bars in waking distance where basically everyone knew my name. It was a final letting go of what I used to have and accepting that this, this growing up and moving on and changing isn't always easy.

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Drew came home for lunch today, like he normally does. I'd just run to the health food store up the street and picked up a couple bags of groceries for the week —  cereal and soup and stuff to make sandwiches. Drew heated up the chicken noodle soup and turned on some music. I finished a bit of writing I was working on and joined him at the table. It was grey and rainy outside, so I turned on our kitchen table light and flipped through the mail he'd brought in. Over lunch, we talked about a photography exhibition of public and private spaces in NYC that we'd seen at the library yesterday (highly recommended), Drew's short film he's working on and how he couldn't find an actress for a small scene he's shooting tonight and so I'll step in, and how the low-cal ice cream sandwiches I'd just bought were the same ones I always buy except half the size.

"What's your favorite part about me living here now?" I was suddenly moved to ask.
"You know," he replied, "it sounds corny, but it's this. The small things. The normal, everyday stuff."

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...And then sometimes change is the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

Comments

[Alyce]

Would it be TMI to tell you I teared up at this? So sweet.

[Natalee]

Don't worry, Alyce, you're not alone in that one.

Man, that makes me really sad. One of the reasons I bought my bike was because reading your descriptions of pedaling around Chicago were so inspirational.

But, I think Drew is totally worth the trade-off.

[Genieve]

yep! I know that feeling!! the way you wrote it down was indeed very moving and now I suddenly want to go and get my bike in the garage at my old apt!!!