Riding Through Anxiety

An adult lesson learned from falling off my bike

Author Trisha R. Thomas uses bike riding to deal with anxiety

The first time I hit the trail, a bike trail, was for our tenth anniversary. My husband and I decided it would be our gift to ourselves. A ten-mile ride for ten years of marriage. We, two adults, signed up, on the easy trek which happened to be ten miles for a guided tour of greater Palm Springs.

Palm Springs in the early spring is paradise. Cool blue skies. Breezy weather. We were in great physical shape. We both worked out at least four times a week and ate and drank our wine responsibly. The road bikes were purchased after being sized for our particular bodies, male and female, seat height adjusted, weight measured for tire pressure. We were strapped with the latest gear. Helmet. Gloves. Compression socks. Padded cycling pants are not for the faint of heart.

Then came the cycling shoes. These particular shoes clip onto the bike pedals. The guy who sold us all of the equipment suggested strongly that we practice unclipping ourselves so as not to land on the pavement at a stop sign. It took a lot of practice. Our neighborhood rides included short hills and having to slow down and eventually stop, which took concentration and prayer. Lots of prayer.

Eventually, I mastered the slowing down and unclipping one foot before coming to a complete stop where my landing was already decided. I’d chosen the left foot for no particular reason. Practicing on my right foot seemed redundant. Why force it? My natural inclination was to unsnap the left while braking, then coming to a full stop with the right foot next. No one can explain these things. The brain wants what it wants. Left. Right. Left.

The ride in Palm Springs hosted about one hundred riders. Cyclist afficionados came from all over the state as well as Arizona and Nevada. To see all of those riders in one place, from babies attached to their parent’s rolling apparatus to individuals eighty and older who liked their tandems. There was no age restriction. The great thing about cycling is that it’s low impact as long as you’re not riding up too many hills. This kind of ride wasn’t made for competitive drivers. Fast friends were made. Good luck wishes were offered.

After the check-in and receiving our numbered plastic identification, we piled up at the starting corner to the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits. No shortage there. We were pumped up, ready to go. As soon as the ribbon was cut, we pulled off slow and steady to create a safe distance between the many wheels gliding along the smooth pavement.

This is where the rubber meets the road, literally. So many like minds and different bodies pedaling in the same direction. We followed the two police officers on their motorcycles who made sure the traffic was stopped before the herd moved through. We hadn’t stopped for the first two or three miles. Just gliding along. My mind traveled to a soft easy place with the wind in my face. Letting go and letting God, as we say. No stress. All blessed. Yep, another one of those good ole’ sayings.

When the whistle blew, or more so, a sound of a tiny trumpet tooting its horn, I was oblivious. All I can remember is my husband yelling, “Wait. Wait.”

My mind was elsewhere. In my own world as we writers do. Ferrying into faraway places. Thinking about my characters was my happy place. Always in motion with a project ruminating. Were they likeable? Was there enough dialogue?  Why hadn’t my agent called? Where were we going to eat dinner after this? What book would I write next if my agent didn’t like the story I’d pitched? Tranquility, nonetheless.

Between the wait, wait, honey, stop, and the mini trumpet blowing, I waded through the intersection. Cars honked and screeched to avoid running down the lady in her own world. I braked, came to a stop, and went down hard. I hit the pavement hip first, elbow second, and shoulder last. All on my right side.

Concerned cyclists as well as motorists who’d witnessed the tumble came swiftly to my aid. Arms reached in to lift me out of the middle of the street, but my right foot was still attached to the pedal. Even down on the ground it was still stuck in the clip.

It took a tiny twist of my foot to release me. Everything hurt. My right ankle throbbed. The impact on my hip from hitting the asphalt sent visions and fear of long-term recovery. A medic, assigned to the bike ride for just this kind of incident, assessed me and determined nothing was broken. I only had minor scratches. Beneath the surface, however, my bruised ego, sore hip, knee, and elbow were all reminders of how I’d fallen and embarrassed myself in front of hundreds of onlookers. The medic then asked if I wanted to finish the ride?

Trisha R. Thomas and her husband bike riding

The thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Failure felt final. I hadn’t even considered I could get back on the bike, act like it never happened, and keep on riding. The crowd dissipated and were back on their bikes, geared up and relieved their ride could continue. Getting back on the proverbial horse meant I had no time to wallow. The group was moving forward whether I rejoined them or not.

There were seven more miles to go. When I told my husband I wanted to continue, he shook his head. No way. I nodded. Yes. If I can stand, I can ride. I didn’t want to give up just because of one errant fall. Lesson learned. I had to focus on the road in front of me. Everything else, the waning decisions, the doubts and to-dos, would all have to wait. While my padded butt was on that bicycle seat, all of my attention had to be on the ride.

I was back, gliding along. The cool wind in my face. The sun on my back. I focused on breathing and pedaling. Any pain became a distant memory. Being forced to stay in the here and now doesn’t happen often in my life. As I said, being a fiction writer means most of the hours in my day are spent in transference with my characters and stories. Being somewhere else, walking in their shoes, is a professional hazard.

Now, I’ve learned for those precious minutes on my bike, I have the right to spend time with only myself and nature. The ride becomes a serene and peaceful place. A safe space to breathe and rest while pedaling 15 miles per hour.

Fast forward to 2024, twenty years later: I’m an avid cyclist. I look forward to my weekend rides mostly on designated bike trails with nature. This is where I get to bask in the sun and quiet the zoom of voices. The fret of anxiety and worry have to wait. I have no choice. I wouldn’t want to fall again. Concentration on the birds chirping or leaves wrestling in the breeze is far more pleasant. Sometimes, there’s simply silence and that’s all right too. With every mile, I get a little closer to serenity.

Trisha R. Thomas is the author of Nappily Ever After, chosen by O Magazine as a Book That Made A Difference. Nappily Ever After was adapted and released as a feature film on Netflix. She is a Literary Lion Award honoree by the King County Library Foundation. She's written for the Los Angeles Review of Books, Writer’s Digest, and used her depth of insight on national platforms such as CNN as a Cultural Analyst. Her latest novel is The Secret Keeper of Main Street (William Morrow 2024)