The road to freedom
What is freedom but the chance to be better? And if that chance isn’t given to you, how much are you willing to try until you give up or until you succeed?
I think I learned to cycle when I was around twelve years old. I don’t quite remember the time; it’s vague and mostly vanished. Perhaps I have filled the memories with my own creations that probably never happened, or they are misunderstandings or figments of my imagination.
My cousin would come to our house in the village during summer breaks, and he always had his bike with him. I used to beg him to let me give it a go, but, in my family, as the youngest of five sisters, I was usually cast aside. I mean, who wants to hang out with kids, am I right?
So he always said no and played with my sisters instead, even though he was my age. Except once, when he gave me the bike and I fell because, obviously, I didn’t know how to ride it. After a good laugh, he said, “And that’s the reason why I didn’t want to give it to you in the first place.”
Then they would go upstairs, where my mom would prepare lunch for everyone. Since I was young and mostly dwelled in my books, I was rarely seen at family gatherings, so my mom would always reserve a plate for me. As the sneaky little thing that I was, when I heard their laughs and saw them distracted, I went downstairs.
Determination
My soul yearned for freedom. For the freedom of trying and having the choice to do that without begging someone else. No one was going to buy me a bike, least of all my parents. So, I made the decision that if I learned to ride the bike by myself, I could accomplish anything I set my mind to in life.
I don’t remember how many times I fell that day. I was covered in bruises, but I didn’t stop. It was my only chance, because “who knew when they would come again?” Under constant pressure and afraid of being caught, I tried again. And again. And again.
I tried and tried and failed over and over for what felt like an eternity, feeling on the edge all of the time. I remember the rush of adrenaline that washed all over me as I heard their footsteps coming down. So I tried it one last time, as if my whole life depended on it.
I finally did it!
Two or three pedals were enough for me to never forget how to ride that big bike, twice my size. My muscle memory grasped so hard to remember those few movements that I’ll never forget them, even now. I did it, and it felt like the greatest achievement of my life. My heart caught in my throat, beating on a gallop. With sweaty hands and trembling knees, after three pedals, I fell. I hurt myself so badly that I drew blood from my foot, but I didn’t make a sound.
I picked up the bike, placed it back, and ran full speed to hide. I don’t know if he noticed me or not, but I do remember that my heart was flying. From that moment on, I knew that nothing could make me feel like riding a bike. The sense of complete freedom that runs through your veins.
The heavy breathing coming from my lungs, humming my favorite music, feeling the air caressing my hair, and having complete control over my life. That was my road to freedom. That was the moment I understood that if there’s a will, there’s a way.
When I look at this painting by the Spanish artist Rosana Sitcha, I see the same feeling of freedom combined with determination: the conviction that if I want something in life, even when all odds are against me, I will find a way, no matter what. That’s why for me, cycling is the cure to everything, like—at least in my mind—swimming is for the girl in the painting.
