Why I Ride — Jill Greco Bodnar

I recently found myself in Alaska for the first time. Work was sending me to the outpost of Unalaska Island in the Aleutian Islands to spend two weeks in the cowboy fishing town of Dutch Harbor (a small drinking town with a big fishing problem). I was excited to bring my recently fixed purple mtb with me for my first foray into Alaska, my noble vessel that has always helped me discover new terrain. Life is a unending series of oscillating waves and I was in the midst of one of the bottom troughs. Experiencing Alaska with my bike was one way that I saw myself arcing to the crest of the next wave.

Before flying out to Dutch I planned to spend an extra day in Anchorage to ride around town and along the Tony Knowles bike trail that traverses Turnagain Arm. It would be an excellent start to my trip. Alaska Airlines, however, had a different idea. In addition to being delayed for two hours, they managed to lose my beloved bike. After waiting at the terminal for almost 2 hours to see if it would show up on the next plane, I left for my hotel pulling my one suitcase behind me sans purple bicycle.

From the 8th floor of the Sheraton I could see Turnagain Arm and the start of the bike trail. The late afternoon was cool and gray. The city was surprisingly flat and small. It beckoned me to ride, but I was trapped in a tower with no vessel. I could have gone out and taken a walk on the streets, but I held out for the airline to call with my bike. What I thought would be a rewarding day of self liberation quickly turned into an afternoon under the covers weakly fending the cool and gray side of my conscience. The merciless wave wrapped around me and dragged me into its arms. Completely alone and far away from all that I loved and trusted, my suddenly weakened state had no chance against what had settled in my head. As I watched the sky outside and the bare streets below, tears flowed for what I wanted and could not have. I cried for what I could not control. My heart ached at what was being lost. My bike being out of my grasp was another twist of the knife in my quickly failing heart.

The minutes slowly progressed into evening and I remained under the covers. Sleep would not have pity on me and I lay awake in front of the tv. I kept myself locked in room 816 not allowing any more unwelcome vestiges into my life. I ordered room service and picked at the food and stared blankly at the colors of VH-1. The Surreal Life or I Love the 70s or other comfort fluff. The tumult of sadness tormented me and teased me for thinking I was strong, that I was still adventurous, that I could overcome love. It beat me and made me weak. This is your life, you really are sentenced to nothingness.

And then the phone rang. Alaska Airlines had brought my bike to the hotel. My mind broke out of its black, cast iron shell and greeted the new hope. The bellhop delivered my vessel to my door. I dragged it inside and began the cathartic process of putting it together. My tools, the Phil lube, the pieces and parts that make it complete were reminding me that I can be complete too. I pulled on some pants and wool jersey, a helmet, gloves, and shoes, then we left room 816 behind to discover this new Alaska.

The second I swung my leg over the saddle and pushed off I found myself again. I was not the sad girl hiding in her room. I was the girl eager for life and new wonders. I was transformed. My bike and I rode toward the entrance of the bike trail and passed over a bridge with dozens of fishermen casting their lines in a fast moving, brown stream. It was 9pm and the life in Anchorage was like any other city in mid-day. Why stop now when you have nearly 4 more hours of daylight? We found the trailhead and set on our way along Turnagain Arm. The tide was way out and heavy gray mudflats hugged the coast before slipping into the arctic water.

I was reminded of a story about a tourist who ventured out onto the mudflats to look for sea life. The mud sucked on her shoes and she only panicked a little, fancying the novelty of mud in Alaska. But with a few more steps the mud became wetter and stickier and she quickly sunk down to her knees and thighs. She squirmed and pulled to get her legs out of the muck, but only sank further. The quiet tide had shifted from ebb to flood. Her husband floundered for a way to help her without getting caught in the mire himself. Soon rescuers were on hand, but they were helpless to pull the woman from her capture. Like other aspects of nature in Alaska, things are different here. The bears don't eat just berries, the mountains don't always let you go home, the waters don't warm your heart. The mud was different also. Heavy with clay and sediment it was actually rather devoid of sea life. As the tide inched closer to the woman, a helo was called in to pull her from above. A harness was wrapped around her waist and the helo advanced gently upward. Her bone and tissue were tired after the hours of struggle and saw no reason to fight anymore. Part of her relented to going upward towards the sky and the other to remain with the cold, soft mud.

I rode onward along the trail in hope of seeing moose that I heard were frequent visitors. Mountains broke the horizon. A kayaker paddled out at sea. There were many other people on the trail on this Saturday night. Walkers and families. Rollerbladers and recreational bikers. We rolled along and I slowly spun in rhythm. My legs and breath in movement. My bike has taken me out of my cavern and reminded me of my strength. Of my independence and ability to live on my own. There are days when you forget you can move. You become so entwined in the movement of others that it escapes you how you ever moved on your own before.

My bike is my best friend. It reminds me of things I can't see for myself. It asks nothing of me but gives everything back. Especially my freedom. I feel the air of the midnight sun because of my bike. It held my hand and pulled me out of my quagmire. Thank you bike. Thank you for helping me remember who I am and that freedom is not dependent on other people. You must walk out the door yourself. In my case it helps to have a friend take you out for a ride.