Self Aggrandizing for L.A.B.C Zine.

I had my first affair when I was 18. This isn't to say that my relationship wasn't already on the fringes of splitsville, but the affair definitely didn't hold things together. I had dropped out of school, quit my job and the only thing left was to lament over how bored I was. I had reached a point in my life in which separation was inevitable. I left without a plan though, and found myself stuck in a slow motion purgatory. Everything moved slowly, the days, the clock, the talks that people would have with me. My world was the continuous tingle of a waking limb.

In an attempt to escape the confines of uninspired boredom, I began taking bus rides around Los Angeles. First I'd head to the Westside, then Downtown and I'd round off the day with a trip to the northern end of the Valley. On a Saturday afternoon in January I stepped off the bus at Reseda and Parthenia. I was fond of freight trains and had planned to walk the tracks back into the West Valley. Before making my way up the dirt hill that held the train bridge high above the street, I passed by a bike shop having a parking lot sale. In hindsight I'm still unclear what made me stop. I can’t honestly say that it was meant to be, but I can say I felt the need to be there. I browsed around for a moment with no clue as to what I was looking at. Men with shiny legs and strange shoes waddled by making a tapping sound, while women were trying on sleeveless mesh apparel and buying gel pads for their seats. I went to leave and a guy asked me if I worked there. I told him I didn't but he insisted on questioning me as to the value of his used mountain bike. I read the name, Gary Fisher. I thought it looked pretty cool. It had a Rock Shox fork, red knobby tires and more gears than I knew existed. Having no clue about bike prices I wildly guessed $300. "Really? Well thanks for your help. Would you be interested in buying it for $200?" It was never my intention to purchase a bike, but without hesitation I said yes. We walked to the ATM together, I pulled out the cash and the exchange was made.

I hadn't ridden a bike since I was 12. I had a red Schwinn that I'd terrorize the neighborhood with. My buddies and I would build jumps out of anything we could find, often treating trash day as a trip to the skate park. I had been completely detached from a bicycle for nearly a decade now. The way I held it felt so awkward. I'd try and walk with it by my side, but the pedals kept scraping my shins. I tried to hold it out in front of me, but the front wheel would get squirrely and end up flipping the bike. I struggled with the awkwardness for nearly a mile before I had gathered the courage, away from the eyes of those who may judge, to step over the down tube and take my first ride. The suspension of the bike bounced me up and down over the slightest bumps and the red tires squished as I made unbalanced turns in the driveway of an abandoned auto shop. Once I figured out the gears and the best way to hold the bars I simply began to pedal.

Life still felt slow, but my legs were moving. With every new day, I'd pedal a little further and a little faster. The sun would set and I'd roll into my drive way, exhausted, yet satisfied. My legs began coming to life and I could feel the energy moving upwards. I was convinced that if I pedaled long enough and hard enough, the energy of life would shoot from my legs, reach my chest, my arms, my neck and eventually my head and bring me back to life, back up to speed.

I woke up one morning feeling distinctly different, I could hear things. It wasn’t just that post break-up warp of sounds and movement. I breathed easily and completely and the sting of anxiety was no more. I called up my buddy Matt and planned a ride. I knew this would be the day I became fully committed, or decided to walk away as I had from so many other hobbies in life. I needed something more difficult than I had ever tried before, and I needed to conquer it. Our mission was to climb to the top of Reseda and follow the trails down to Sunset Beach in Santa Monica. After a few hours under the sun we reached the overcast skies of Pacific Palisades. I fell twice on the descent and loved it each time. I felt things again. I was more in tune with my body now than ever before.  Our ride came to pick us up, but I wasn’t done yet. I felt dirty, like I was cheating myself for even thinking I had done enough, put in enough hard work.  I knew if I got in that car, I'd get home before the sun set and spend the rest of the day, maybe the rest of my life, wondering why I hadn't kept pedaling. I had found self-love again, and I wasn't going to take it for granted.

I've had a few more affairs since first breaking up with myself. One was on the road, one in the dirt; one was even a cross between road and dirt. The objects of my desire were vast in their material prowess. Carbon fiber, aluminum, titanium, but I always came back to what I knew best, steel. My bicycle has showed me who I am, it has reminded me of what I believe in and feel passionate about. It has done for me what books, school, work, family and even girlfriends could not. There is a point in every ride, where the noise, the sweat, the sun and the fatigue come together as one and fight every instinct you have to keep pedaling. There is literally one defining rotation that will put you in control or put you under control. I strive to find this moment now as much as possible, because I never want to feel stuck again. Pedaling is not my life, but it sure helps me live life and for that it will always hold a special place in my heart.