Biking Proud
by Editor Iris Graville
It had been a long time since I’d let out a “Woohoo!” while riding a bike. But twenty years ago, that’s the sound that escaped the first time I pedaled a friend’s electric bicycle up the gravel lane to my house.
Although my rural home in Washington State’s Salish Sea is known as “the flat island,” it has plenty of hills to tax my aging knees and lower back. Ever since that test ride, though, I’ve breezed through headwinds and ascended inclines on my own electric hybrid bicycle, sailing past farm houses and grazing cows on my way to the market, bank, and post office.
My first e-bike, an arctic blue Merida Powercycle, had a 24-volt lead-acid battery. I only needed moderate pedaling to conquer grades even a serious cyclist might strain over. As a friend says, “It’s like having an angel at your back pushing you up a hill.”
A few years ago, after riding the Merida for many miles—and replacing two batteries—I decided to upgrade to an IZIP Trekking electric bike. My pedal-assist model is powered by a lighter-weight Lithium-ion battery integrated in its copper penny-colored frame. The IZIP gives me that same angelic nudge when the road upslopes. (Unfortunately, IZIP no longer makes the Trekking version, but their newer models offer the latest e-bike innovations).
Even after two decades of boosted cycling, though, I still grit my teeth when a bystander shouts, “Hey, that’s cheating!” as I pedal past. I have yet to come up with a quick comeback that expresses the complexity of why I’ve opted for a bicycle that whirs.
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It’s not as though I haven’t had experience with pithy answers to questions you could write an entire book about. My memoir, Hiking Naked: A Quaker Woman’s Search for Balance, recounts my journey through uncertainty about work and calling. Knocked off my feet in 1994 after twenty years in public health nursing, I quit my job and convinced my husband and our thirteen-year-old twins to move to Stehekin, a remote mountain village in Washington State’s North Cascades. They sought adventure; I yearned for the solitude of a tiny community accessible only by foot, boat, or float plane. While hiking Stehekin’s switchbacks and river trails, I wrestled with the metaphorical nakedness of the loss of my identity as a healer and caregiver.
At author events and in interviews about the book, someone almost always asked, “Did you really hike naked?” And another common question: “Are there pictures?” Over the years I’ve honed my simple reply. “The naked part is MOSTLY a metaphor.”
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These days, my pedaling and panting stimulate questions and ideas much like my trekking in the wilderness did. Even though I’m officially retired, uncertainties about calling still arise, leaving me with feelings of nakedness about who I am and what it is I’m meant to do. Bicycling’s combination of exertion and sensory input opens me to insights, clarity, and calm. Whether on my IZIP or my old mountain bike, both sets of wheels free me from the steel shell of my Toyota. I relish the scent of Nootka roses and the briny tang of the Salish Sea, the brush of air that warms or cools my skin, and the wind’s skimming of my nose and lips. I’m reconnected with the natural world when rain dots my glasses, firs sway, an eagle soars overhead, or a seal in the bay pops its head up above the water line and seems to gaze directly at me. So why the defensiveness when someone suggests there’s deceit with my mode of transportation?
What’s different now is the puncture of my pride with my dependence on a little motor to boost my lagging stamina and stiff joints. The hum of that battery tells the world I’ve chosen—no, I need—to give my aging body some help. That’s hard on my ego.
I admitted my frailty when I wrote in my memoir about a hike my husband and I took to Goode Ridge. As I wrote in the first chapter of Hiking Naked, I was close to giving up near the end of the trail’s 5,000 feet of elevation gain in five miles. The prod I needed then came from my husband’s generous act of stripping to his socks and hiking boots.
Now I need to do more peeling off to proudly ride my e-bike. There’s nothing dishonest about that “angel” at my back when I turn into the wind or approach an incline. A snappy retort to the critics? Perhaps a smile and my jet stream as I cruise past are enough.
Iris Graville writes nonfiction, including personal essays, memoir, and profiles. Her work has been published in national and regional journals and anthologies. Iris is also the publisher of the online SHARKREEF Literary Magazine. Her third book, the memoir Hiking Naked (Homebound Publications, 2017) received a Nautilus Book Award. In 2018, she was named the first “Writer-in-Residence” for the Washington State Ferries system, drafting essays as the vessel coursed among the state’s San Juan Islands. Writer in a Life Vest: Essays from the Salish Sea, was the result, published by Homebound Publications in March 2022. An environmental activist and a retired nurse, Iris lives with her husband on traditional Coast Salish lands, now called Lopez Island, Washington. irisgraville.com