Today I stopped in a bike shop in my neighborhood. It’s a tiny place that’s been
there for about as long as its owner has been in the neighborhood—which is to
say, most of his life.
There, I saw someone I hadn’t seen in a
while. He’s worked in the shop during
the season for as long as I can remember.
Whatever they’re paying him, he can afford to work there: He retired from a city job when he was 50.
(Old bike-industry joke: “Wanna know how to end up with a small
fortune in this business? Start with a big
one!”)
We chatted.
“Still riding, I see.” I nodded,
but I wondered why he said that. As long
as I don’t have a condition that precludes doing so, I intend to keep on
cycling.
“What about you?”
“My cycling days are over,” he said.
“Oh, I’m fine.
Just old. Too old to ride.”
“How old is that?, might I ask.”
He told me.
“So you’re retiring from cycling—but not working?”
He sighed.
“The legs can’t do what they used to do.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not sorry.
I had some really good times on my bike.
Good memories.”
He didn’t mention any injuries or debilitating
diseases. I’m guessing that riding just
became more pain than pleasure for him.
I must admit:
It wasn’t comforting to hear what he said, as I’m closer to his age than
I’d like to admit. He was younger than I
am now when we first met and did some rides together.
When I first started to talk about my gender
identity issues with my former partner, she predicted that I might give up
cycling. “It’ll suck,” she said, “when you’re full of estrogen instead of
testosterone.”
“Why should it matter?”
“You don’t realize how accustomed you are to the
strength you have. I don’t know that
you’d like riding without it.”
As I mentioned in a post on my other blog, I thought about
giving up cycling when I first started living as Justine, about a year after I
started taking hormones. At that point,
I hadn’t yet noticed much of a loss in my strength. I just thought that cycling was part of my
life as a guy named Nick and wasn’t sure I could bring it into my new life.
I love cycling now as much as I ever did. Perhaps more so: I think that in my youth and
my life as a male (which overlapped quite a lot!), I prided myself on riding
longer, harder and faster than most other cyclists, at least the ones I
knew. Even more, I liked the admiration
and respect I got from other male cyclists, some of whom won races.
Since my transition, I’ve become a different sort
of cyclist. I don’t have the strength I
once did. Some of that may be a matter
of age or other factors besides my hormonal changes. Surprisingly, I didn’t have to “accept” that
I wasn’t going to be as strong or fast as I once was; rather, I found that
cycling heightened the emotional release I have felt in living as the person I
am.
I hope that I can continue it—cycling, or more
important, what it’s become for me—when I get to be the age of the man I met
today. And beyond.
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