Trike Story
It was a tearful week when my dad helped me sell my road and mountain bikes to a sports consignment shop. I couldn’t ride them anymore and it felt like time to clear out our porch. My dad had gotten me into cycling at a young age and he had been my most constant riding buddy over the years. I made a hundred bucks for both bikes—they were never that valuable—but the miles, sweat, meditation time, and time in the saddle made them priceless. After the sale was final, my dad wheeled me out to the car. Fittingly, it had started to pour rain, and I cried so hard as my heart broke right there in the parking lot. We both got drenched as he hoisted me, limp with grief and ALS, from my manual wheelchair into the car. Even writing about it now makes me nauseous, just remembering…
A few days later I shared my experience with the exercise chat of Her ALS Story. It’s a subgroup of the larger WhatsApp chat, and we encourage each other to keep moving and stretching and breathing deep. We also track our minutes of activity each month on a shared spreadsheet. The indelible Andrea Lytle Peet leads the group. She’s had ALS for over 10 years and has completed more than 50 marathons on a trike!
By the end of the afternoon, the others in the group were sending me messages of support and acknowledgment of my loss. And then Andrea posed the question, “have you considered trying a recumbent trike?” The truth was that I had, but I was afraid it was too late for my wobbly legs and puny arms. And I didn’t know what to look for and where to start. Without a beat, Andrea arranged to loan me one of her trikes to test out!
I flew into action to prepare for the trike trial run: my dad traded cars with me so we could fit the trike in the car, assuming I had the strength to pedal the thing. My sister found her cycling shoes (I had gotten rid of all my cycling gear) and my brother-in-law fit them with the right toe clips.
We met up with Andrea after our next ALS clinic visit at Duke, a 2.5 hour drive for us from Virginia. She was excited for me to take the trike for a spin. My husband, Yener, unloaded it from her car. After a quick tutorial, he plopped me in, strapped me into the shoes, and clipped my shoes into the pedals. Then I started pedaling around the parking lot. Glee bubbled out of me at the sensation of gliding once again, smoothly and gracefully, over the asphalt. I could do it! My legs could turn the wheels and my arms could steer and brake. A part of me I thought I’d lost had resurfaced, the part that could rely on my own strength to move through the world, the athlete in me. I cried tears of joy this time. We borrowed the trike for a few months while I looked for one of my own.
Two months (and many happy trike rides) later, we met her again after another check-in at Duke. My parents were with me this time for our trike return rendezvous. My dad unloaded it from our Subaru and into hers while she and I chatted and gushed about the joys of cycling through her car window.
Our next stop was the parking lot of a Petco to meet with an elderly man who was selling a recumbent trike very much like Andrea’s. After taking a few spins in the parking lot on the like-new shiny green trike and asking a strand of questions to the seller (that my parents translated to him because of my soft, garbled voice), I handed over the cash. Let the new adventure commence!
I’ve been working up to longer rides and feeling my legs strengthen a tiny bit. I require assistance getting in and out the door, in and out of the trike, and helmeted, shoed, and gloved up for a ride in our neighborhood. It’s a whole chore to get me and the trike in the car and onto a nearby paved trail. My squad does it all for me with enthusiasm, because they can tell how much it means to me.
There’s a flat paved trail along the James River not far from our house. I’d been there dozens of times on my road bike before my diagnosis. Once you get past the busy section near town, you can tuck down on the handlebars and sprint. Of course, downhills are fun on a bike, but there’s something addictive about a long flat—flying past trees on either side, finding that perfect gear and rhythm to create a wind tunnel, slicing through the air with the sheer power of your body. I had forgotten how much I adored that rush. Until I reclaimed it on my trike…
My parents took me back to the river trail. I was timid at first, expecting my slow pedaling to match their brisk walking pace, and that we’d talk and enjoy the day together. My dad must have sensed my antsy energy, and the click-click of the trike coasting too freely. He told me to go ahead, open it up! So I did. I found a new perfect gear and I flew. There were no tears this time, just a wide, wind-blown smile. 💛
For you Wicked fans, I’m calling her Elphaba. She’s helping me defy gravity.