Letting Go (part 1 of 2)

People say you should never give up. Once in a while, however, I find that I have to let go. Last week I let go of my handcycle.

Growing up in Lincoln, Maine, I rode my bicycle everywhere. My friends and I started out with single-speed bikes. We built jumps out of cinderblocks and plywood and launched ourselves skyward. As teenagers, we graduated to 10-speed bicycles and went for long rides to neighboring towns. But once we got our driver’s licenses we couldn’t be bothered with a child’s mode of transportation any longer.

When Kim and I, in our late 30s, bought our first house in southern Maine I thought I might take up bicycling again. I bought a hybrid bike that I could use on both trails and the road. I took it out a few times but noticed I didn’t have enough strength in my legs to do what I wanted to do. Not long afterward I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.

A couple of years later I saw an advertisement for a handcycling symposium to be held at the University of New Hampshire. Kim and I attended, and I fell in love with the activity. I bought my first and only handcycle that same day.

I used to exercise early in the morning. When I acquired the handcycle, we lived in Cape Elizabeth, and every day before work I would either ride my handcycle or go to the gym. On my cycling mornings I would sometimes start from my house and wind through the wooded roads of Cape Elizabeth. It was not unusual for me to startle a whitetail deer or two. On other cycling mornings I would lift the bike into the back of my pickup and drive a mile or so to a neighborhood in South Portland called Knightville. From there I would ride down the Eastern Trail to Bug Light Park. Depending on the time of the year I might catch the sunrise over the ocean or at least watch the boats leave the harbor for a day of fishing. If I still wanted to get more miles in, I would ride around and around the loop in Knightville, passing by my future home on each lap.

When we moved to Scarborough, I found new routes to enjoy. I could ride to Higgins Beach, Prout’s Neck, or if I had time all the way to Bug Light in South Portland. But I also enjoyed rides in my Scarborough neighborhood.

With Mother’s Day, 2008, approaching, I had no idea what to get Mom. She was 74 years old, a quadriplegic, and going blind from age-related macular degeneration. At the last minute, an idea popped into my head. I so enjoyed my handcycling rides around the neighborhood that I decided I would try to bring my mother along, virtually. I put together this video for her: (if you are reading this as an email, click here to go to the original post in order to watch the video)

That turned out to be the last Mother’s Day present I would give her, as she passed away later that year.

Over the years my arms weakened and my rides became shorter. The summer we moved from Scarborough to the Knightville section of South Portland, 2011, proved to be my last summer of handcycling. There I was, returning to the very spot where I had started my handcycling adventures, and I no longer had the ability to ride. The handcycle went into storage.

Each year I considered selling it, and each year I decided not to. Selling would mean giving up, and I'm not supposed to give up. I thought, “If this treatment works (whatever treatment I was on at the time), even a little, I can get back on that handcycle.” But a few weeks ago I finally had to admit that, barring a medical miracle, I’ll never ride  again. I put it up for sale, and the new buyers picked it up on Saturday morning.

It was an emotional day. I didn’t feel guilty – like I was giving up. I knew it was about acceptance and moving on with life. I've been through this drill many times already. But each one of these moments, each one of these losses, takes a little part of my soul with it. The mood of the day was tempered, however, by the story of where my handcycle was going, and who would be riding it in the future.

Click here to see part two