Wednesday, January 24, 2018 // The Statement
6B

King of the Road

W

e hadn’t made it to the 
first 
stop 
sign 
before 

my mom made me do 

something not fun.

“Stop! Go back and put your helmet 

on.”

Fine. I went back into the garage, 

got my helmet –– which was just a 
normal bike helmet, and not even one 
of the cool skater helmets –– and put 
it on.

Now 
blissfully 
free 
from 

interruptions, 
my 
family 
and 
I 

continued on our bike ride, and 
got about twice as far before I was 
interrupted by an protruding tree 
branch. I flipped completely over my 
handlebars and landed squarely on my 
now-helmeted head.

For that I say, “Thanks, Mom.” 

Fast forward 10 years and, because 
I am ungrateful swine, I never wear 
my helmet –– for which I say, “Sorry, 
Mom! (And dad).”

Since coming to college, biking 

has turned from something I did 
occasionally on weekends with my 
family or as part of clandestine 
midnight outings into how I get 
anywhere and everywhere. And the 
recklessness has not been tempered; 
the wipeouts have only become more 
frequent.

Some of them are attributable 

purely to my own stupidity. One night, 
when I got hungry at 2 a.m., as one 
tends to get, I made the logical choice 
of going to Jimmy John’s: a relatively 
healthy, very appetizing and very 
open restaurant! Being 2 a.m., the 
roads were completely clear, making 
it a perfect time to figure out just 
how fast I could get my bike to turn. 
Slaloming between potholes, feeling 
perfectly confident, I quickly found 
out –– and in a swift, sweeping motion 
was on the pavement with little birds 
flying in circles around my head. 
Luckily, the roads were completely 
clear.

Other times are less pure stupidity 

and more stupid obstinacy. It was the 
first day of the winter semester last 
year, but I’d be damned if I let the 
weather force me to waste 17 minutes 
of my valuable time walking to class 
instead of biking. The road conditions 
weren’t ideal for my thin, traction-
less tires, but they were good enough. 
Biking cut the 17-minute stretch 
between my house and the MLB to 
five, so needless to say, I was feeling 

rather good about myself as I rolled 
up to my 10 a.m. Spanish class.

Just one more curb to go.
The curb ramp, however, had just 

a little too much snow packed on it, 
and my self-satisfaction turned into 
shame, disgust and annoyance at the 
dozens of students who had decided 
to walk to their 10 a.m. classes at the 
MLB and were now concerned if I, 
now on the ground instead of on my 
bike, was OK.

“Haha, I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Stop looking at me!
And then –– and then, there are the 

rare times which are a combination 
of stupidity, obstinacy and neglect. 
After subjecting my bike to years of 
highly regular use, it has begun to 
deteriorate; tape peels off, screws 
come loose, that sort of thing, nothing 
that can’t be fixed at a bicycle repair 
shop. In September, though, the 
seat began wobbling, which is never 
something you want, and sometimes 
the wobbling got quite vicious. I found 
a reliable, albeit temporary, solution 
in just twisting the screw underneath 
the seat tight, either with my hands 
or with an Allen wrench. It would 
only take a few hours or days and 
the seat would start wobbling again. 
A temporary solution was more than 
good enough for me, though.

One night, I was coming home 

from a long and unproductive three 
hours at the library, the studious 
student that I am. The seat was barely 
wobbling, and so I felt it was safe to 
ride with no hands (a talent I hadn’t 
developed until coming to college) as 
I was approaching my house.

Just one more curb to go.
This 
curb 
ramped 
up 
at 
a 

particularly steep angle. I had always 
used some caution when biking over 
it in the past, and would stand up on 
the pedals, butt hovering above the 
seat, both hands on the handlebars. 
Maybe this time, though, I should do 
it sitting down, no hands. To prove 
wrong all who had doubted me.

Though you’ve probably guessed by 

now, what happened next was actually 
a little more exciting than a standard 
wipeout. The bearings holding the 
seat in place, as I found out a couple 
of weeks later at the bike repair shop, 
had rusted out quite a bit. And so, 
when I took that curb all seat and no 
hands, I put a lot of pressure on those 
poor little bearings. Eschewing any 

regard for my well-being, the seat 
detached itself from the rest of the 
bike and flew backward, taking me 
with it. Already having gone several 
weeks failing to repair the seat, I went 
a couple more completely missing 
one, forced to ride standing up, both 
hands on the handlebars at all times. 
A fitting punishment.

And, because symmetry is life’s idea 

of humor, this year Mother Nature 
made it so all the New Year’s snow 
had melted and refrozen over every 
sidewalk on campus for the winter 
semester’s first Monday. One year had 
passed since my most shameful fall. 
The flashbacks I got from going up 
curbs had subsided almost completely. 
Mother Nature thought she could cow 
me into submission. It was time to let 
old things die.

At least that time I wasn’t in front 

of the MLB. I got up and back on my 
bike before anyone was within talking 
distance.

All of this is to say, I guess, that I 

will never learn my lesson! I will keep 
biking to class every day, and I will 
not go any slower, haters. And I won’t 
wipe out ever again.

Maybe it’s okay that I don’t wear 

a helmet, since I’m so hardheaded 
about biking already. And maybe this 
isn’t the case, but part of what biking 
is to me is my imagination that every 
other biker is just as hardheaded. I do 
feel superior to you, in case you were 
wondering, walkers. My bike goes 10 
times faster than you, and is greener 
and more mobile than a car or moped.

I could be compensating. Again, 

maybe it’s just my flawed perception, 
but bikers –– especially those who 
bike through the winter –– are kind of 
a class of social outcasts. Like walking 
is just normal, and biking is “extra.” 
Let me know if you know what I’m 
talking about, reader.

All of that, whether it’s going 

on in my head or not, just adds to 
the camaraderie I feel with other 
bikers –– especially those who bike 
through the winter. And so I hope my 
children, when I have them, want me 
to teach them to ride a bike, and that 
biking again becomes something I do 
occasionally on weekends with my 
family. Don’t worry –– I’ll make them 
wear helmets.

BY ANDREW HIYAMA, DAILY NEWS EDITOR

Courtesy of Andrew Hiyama

Andrew riding his bike in 1999.

