Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
There’s one word no one’s ever used to describe me. Well, OK there are probably plenty. No one’s ever described me as ‘svelte’ or ‘pious’, after all. I’ve never heard ‘classy’ except through a thick layer of sarcasm, while I’m in the throes of strawpedo-ing a bottle of Lambrini. But the particular word I’m thinking of is something I have always wanted to be. I’ve longed for it, yearned for it, aspired to become it, and spent my whole life failing. Until recently.
When I ride through the streets of London, I feel powerful. But I’ve been called ‘powerful’ many times before. Sometimes in good ways, like when I achieve something difficult and a friend wants to give me my well-earned kudos. Sometimes in bad ways, like when men have been making unwelcome comparisons between me and another woman – a more feminine one. Someone delicate and petite.
I longed to be one of those delicate, petite girls when I was younger. I loved frilly dresses and ringlets and beautifully-shaped shoes that fit neatly on small feet. I even took ballet classes, if you can imagine that. Back when I was young. Back when I wasn’t almost six feet tall.
I ride an XL bike, now. The biggest frame I can find. It took me ages to choose a bike I loved, because all the ones I test rode seemed slightly off. They didn’t fit my too-large body, or they felt too heavy or just not right. Eventually I found this one – the one – the one that makes my heart sing as I carve up the streets of the city. Checking over my shoulder to make sure no one’s behind me before sailing out of the bike lane and into the road – overtaking all the men on tank-like Limes.
I have always wanted to be smaller. I think I have convinced myself that being smaller would solve a lot of my problems. Men won’t be cruel if I’m petite, will they? The main reason they do what they do is because I’ve never been attractive. And I’ll never be attractive because I’m always too big. Too fat, too stacked, too tall, too… you know. Too much. If I were smaller I’d be pretty. Dainty. Petite.
I don’t think much about these things when I’m riding my bike. I’m too focused on what’s in front. As I spot the red light at a junction, and the pedestrian numbers ticking down, I slow – click down the gears – then come to a hovering stop. Balancing on the pedals with just enough of a crawl that I haven’t halted completely, before red, amber, green then let’s go – I sail away. I manage to do this without putting feet down. Without ever really, truly stopping.
I don’t know at what point I stopped believing it was possible to feel comfortable and at ease with my body. Perhaps when I was around ten, and my ballet teacher let me know that this dancing thing I enjoyed so much could only ever be a hobby. Already it was clear that I’d be big. Tall. Long-limbed and large and occupying far too much fucking space. I thought that was where my clumsiness came from, to be honest. I knock things over, step on plugs, am constantly tripping or stumbling or banging into things.
Except when I’m on my bike.
When I’m on my bike I am looking at the road ahead, and the pavement ahead, and even if I’m moderating my speed to avoid crashing into the slow guy on a Lime bike (seriously, my dudes, the power-assist on those things is speed limited and you will never beat my pushbike on the straight), I can also see the rest of the world unfolding in detail around me. I can stare a hundred yards ahead and be singing along to the tunes in my ears, yet still tell you exactly which pedestrian is about to walk out into the street. I see them turn without looking, I watch them lurch forward, but I’m ten steps ahead and already into the road: check blind spot, signal with my right hand, glide out and merge with the traffic so I don’t smash into the twat who doesn’t understand that the bike lane’s dangerous too.
I wish more people understood how potent the right compliments can be. Not just throwing out the same things you’ve said many times before, or parroting kind words that could apply to anyone. I mean identifying something somebody aspires to be, then telling them exactly when they nail it: it’s one of the greatest ways to give someone joy for free. I’m not sure I’ve ever been called ‘beautiful’ by a guy that I love, but I have heard ‘pretty’ on occasion. Each time it makes me glow. It powers me through days, weeks, sometimes longer. I understand why I do not hear it more (it doesn’t fit), but at the same time I sometimes think: how hard would it be to see the pretty in someone you love? Even if they look like me: too big, too awkward, too clumsy, too much. There must be things about me that compel these men, or they wouldn’t keep working to stay in my life. Would it hurt to call me ‘pretty’ one or two more times a year, given how much joy that one word brings me?
I digress. There’s one word I aspire to above almost all the others. No one else has ever called me this, but I feel it on my bike.
When I crest a hill and soar over it, clicking up the gears as I pick up speed on the way down….
When I signal with confidence then sail round a corner….
When I sweep out to overtake a group of people riding far too slowly…
When I stand up on the pedals just to feel the wind on more of my body, or blaze across an empty junction at midnight with music pounding in my head, or click-click-click down the gears then filter smoothly past thirty cars or check over my shoulder and pull out to get round three buses or turn left into the park with the wind behind me and no one telling me off or expecting anything of me or holding me to standards I could never hope to meet.
I feel it, on my bike.
On my bike, I am graceful.
