THE GIRL ON THE BIKE [R, 10-22-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

THE GIRL ON THE BIKE   [R, 10-22-20]

There was no reason yesterday for my moroseness. Yes, the sky was gray and droopy. Yes, I was missing my friend who died recently. But gray skies and lost friends are common sorts of days. There are plenty of those days when I feel like lengthening my stride and lifting my head as I walk. But not yesterday. My head was drooping like the sky, and my legs were trudging unwillingly.

Then the girl on the bicycle appeared.

She’s not really a girl. Probably about thirty, although age is hard to guess, for she’s always wearing a helmet. Well, a man should not try to guess a woman’s age, regardless. And she is a woman, not a girl. I understand that we should not diminish women by referring to them as girls. But to someone my age, any woman is a girl if she’s under forty. Or maybe seventy. And if she can ride a bike.

She rode by me, silently. Not slowly, but not fast. And, as she always does, she smiled and waved in the same way—quietly, patiently, pleasantly, undemandingly.

The rest of my walk, as I always do after I have encountered “the girl on the bike,” I smiled, almost like I had seen a puppy or a laughing baby. The skies were still gray and droopy, but I was not. Well, not the droopy part.

I have no idea who she is, what her name is, what her status in life is, even what model bike she rides. And she knows nothing about me.

To her, I’m just the old man walking. To me, she’s just the girl on the bike. And that’s all I want her to be. If I met her, talked to her, got to know her, it would diminish her magic.

I understand a little bit about why she is magic to me, why she always makes me smile. She’s young and healthy and rides a bike. She makes me remember when I was young and healthy and could ride a bike. She represents a future I can’t have. With luck, she can ride that bike and wave at old men walking for another fifty years. I’m nostalgic for something that is not yet.

So, I came home and wrote this. When I get into one of my dismal moods, feeling that “If I had my way in this wicked world, I would tear this building down,” [1] I think: Why in the world do I write my little Christ In Winter columns? I say nothing that other writers don’t say better. How useless this is.

Then I think that maybe for you, I’m the girl on the bike—nothing special, not spectacular, no great depth, just a pleasant brief encounter, a smile and a wave.

Also, a reminder: If you see a droopy old person walking, smile and wave.

John Robert McFarland

 

1] The Peter, Paul, & Mary version of “If I Had My Way.”