My mom likes to say that I came into the world walking and then walked around the world. I came into this world feet first and three months prematurely. I was born with cerebral palsy. Decades later I would travel on a program called Remote Year that took me to 12 cities across 4 continents.
The Remote Year journey was the experience of my life thus far. Prior to RY the defining experience of my life was my disability: managing it, accepting it, and learning to own it one day at a time.
I have spastic diplegia the most common form of cerebral palsy. CP is a chronic neuromuscular condition that lies on a spectrum impacting each person differently. I lie on the high functioning end of the spectrum. CP is a form of brain damage (cerebral). Palsy refers to muscle weakness or paralysis. Spastic refers to increased muscle tone and diplegia refers to the lower half of the body.
I have spasticity in both my legs. Certain muscles are constantly contracted due to damage to the portion of the brain or spinal cord that controls voluntary movement. My tight leg muscles combined with the internal rotation of my hips results in my Scissor gait. I walk with my knees and feet turned inward. I had surgery at six to lengthen my hamstrings. Post op I was temporarily in a wheelchair due to full leg casts. Then I did rehabilitative physical therapy, where I learned how to walk again with the man made arches on my previously flat feet.
My parents' wish was to raise me without limitations. So they instilled in me the spirit to try anything (well anything but running on the sidewalk). I learned that things might be harder, or take me longer, but I also learned not to accept defeat easily.
I had a hunger to be treated and seen as equal. More than anything I wanted to participate. Looking back I can see how biking was a way of participating in an adolescent right of passage, akin to learning how to drive a few short years later.
Yet biking is so much more than an adolescent mile marker. It is one of my first loves. It all started around the age of 12 with a Schwinn mountain bike, the iconic yellow Sports Walkman (ah cassettes), and my favorite U2 album.
My destination was always the same: the paved trails of Eldridge Park not far from my house. I would ride in long meandering circles until I had to turn the tape over and back again. I would lose myself on those rides. This was easy to do between the hypnotic repetition that is pedaling and the lush soundscapes of The Unforgettable Fire.
I fell in love with so many things over the course of those rides: being in nature, connecting with myself, and the music of U2, just to name a few. More than anything, those rides turned me into a biker for life.
No one is more surprised by this than me. I learned how to ride a bike years after my peers. I was in fifth grade when I learned something it took others a couple tries to pick up. But when I did, what a sweet sweet victory it was! I’ll never forget making it past the first big crack in the sidewalk and around the entire block on my sister’s hand me down Huffy Desert Rose with the purple banana seat. You never forget your first time and I’ll never forget that bike.
I took to biking because it made me feel free. I could go wherever the road leads. I still love it all these years later because I feel my most capable when I ride. Remote Year was filled with its fair share of mental, emotional, and physical challenges. Each city had its own way of reminding me of my disability, whether it was the prohibitive hikes of Cape Town or the slick cobblestone streets of Lisbon. Biking was my equalizer. A way for me to ground myself in something I know and love while also giving me the confidence to conquer somewhere new.
My biking world tour began month one in Cape Town, South Africa. I was the only person signed up with Bike & Saddle that day, so a group ride became a private guided tour. I rode for hours on unprotected bike lanes, cruising past the beaches of Bloubergstrand and Melkbos as we took in the sights of Table Bay.
Table Bay is named after Table Mountain however the landmark that my eye kept returning to was Robben Island, just west of the coast. Robben Island is where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for most of his sentence.
That month I was reading Mandela: My Prisoner, My Friend by Christo Brand, the prison guard assigned to Nelson Mandela on the island. A story of friendship that is ultimately a testament to the humanity of South Africa’s legendary leader. Seeing just how close and yet how far he was from the mainland and knowing that he saw and felt that distance every day for 18 years told me more about his character than any book could.
The other thing I learned that day came courtesy of some rest stop prophet. At a Sasol gas station in Melkbosstrand this bathroom wall musing caught my breath more than the forthcoming, anxiety inducing, lack of road shoulder.
“Never be too busy to stop and recognize the grief that lies in another’s eyes, too busy to offer help or to share, too busy to sympathize or care! Today try to identify the heart-hurt hidden in the words that another is speaking!”
I took it as a sign for the world wide journey I had just begun. A reminder to slow down, be present, and keep my eyes wide open. A sign or solid cautionary advice for the next city I would call home and explore on two wheels...Marrakech, Morocco.
My bike didn’t just take me through the streets of Marrakech, it took me through the bustling epicenter that is the medina. In modern Arabic medina means city or town. The medina is typically the old, historical part of town. Marrakech’s medina is teeming with vendors, selling everything from food, to textiles, to spices.
The medina is equally as famous for its wares as it is for its labyrinth layout of narrow cobblestone streets. It’s hard enough to navigate as a pedestrian between the overflowing stalls on each side, the other people and animals around you, and the uneven ground beneath your feet. Add two wheels to said challenge and I was surprisingly game.
I had strength in numbers. This particular ride was organized by Remote Year as one of our monthly track events, so I was riding alongside, or in this case, single file, with my fellow traveling companions, my Ohana.
Many Ohana were uncomfortable on a bike and apprehensive to ride for good reason. I looked beyond the challenges (do you know how much harder it is to peddle a bike slowly?!) and focused on the legendary opportunity it was! I figured if mopeds could make their way through the maze, so could I.
It is an experience I never expected and will not forget. Riding through the medina was like starring in a live action video game: two points for avoiding oncoming traffic, four points for taking a hairpin turn down a one way, and a bonus point for keeping the bike upright, You may proceed to the next level.
The next level was literally out of town and the views were too. I casually looked up from the road and the juxtaposition of the Atlas Mountains in the distance and palm trees in the foreground resulted in a split second case of distracted riding.
At times rolling through the outskirts it felt like we were in Beverly Hills - all gated estates and palm trees. And just when I’m thinking how 90201, a flock of sheep would come up the street, reminding me that we’re not in Southern California, but Northern Africa.
I came to Spain feeling like a conquistador. Conquering a new continent on two wheels made me feel
like a badass biker. I arrived in Valencia on a confidence high ready to ride. I wasted no time finding the nearest bike rental.
I walked into Bicipoint and it was the stuff dreams are made of: “Bamboleo” by the Gipsy Kings was playing and there were two delicious men working, including a long haired Italian stud. I stumbled through a conversation in Spanish and unconsciously threw in a few Italian words from that one year I took in college. This is how I find out he’s from Puglia. In a classic case of “Themi’s Got No Game” I told him my favorite Italian word is dentifricio. Telling a hot man toothpaste is my favorite word because it’s fun to say. Who am I? Buddy the elf?
I exited the store with my pride limping behind me. I made my way to what became my favorite spot in the city, Turia Gardens. The gardens sit on the former riverbed of the Turia, the course of which was diverted south of the city after a devastating flood in 1957.
Aside from being an example of inventive urban planning, the gardens are a biker’s idea of indulgence: protected from street traffic and boasting designated bike lanes. After the freewheelin’ streets of Cape Town and Marrakech, it was a pleasure to have that kind of freedom. Free from traffic and free to ride without stopping. Fragrance fills the air as the park is filled with so many blooming trees and flowers. The smell is indescribable and the sight is a floral feast of the eye.
The feast continued in Split, Croatia. We explored the coast, an art gallery, and a precious gem of a beach on another two wheeled track event. We biked up Marjan Hill to the Ivan Mestrovic Gallery. One of the many things I loved about Remote Year was the exposure it gave me to new things. It was exciting to be introduced to the work of this 20th century Croatian sculptor in his own home. The gallery is his gorgeous estate and the grounds overlooking the Adriatic are an exhibit all their own.
From the gallery we made our way to the only place you want to be in Split in July...the beach. The thought of the eventual cool down swim got me uphill in the summer heat. Any day spent riding is a good day, but it’s an even better day when the sun is shining and the landscape is postcard status. The last leg of our ride was filled with some truly spectacular views of the coast through the trees.
It was worth every pedal stroke to not only feel the satisfying cool of the Adriatic but to feast on the view that is Kasjuni beach. One of those places that feels like a secret because of its secluded location and the immediate feeling of relaxation just being there brings.
My next ride gave me some feelings alright, butterflies. Some thoughtful co-workers had gifted me a bike tour in Córdoba, Argentina. Luckily I made it to month eight, not so lucky for me, I broke my ribs month six in Lisbon (see Falls So Hard).
The fall that broke my ribs seismically shook my confidence. I spent the next month in Buenos Aires simply regaining my confidence on two feet. By the time I got to Córdoba, I hadn’t ridden a bike in months and I was nervous to saddle up. Thankfully I had a few things working in my favor. I was the only rider signed up so there was no group to keep pace with and I had a patient and encouraging guide in Juan.
I had such an enchanting experience with Juan that I wrote an entire post about it called Once Upon Another Time. The ride was so much more than a scenic tour through the Sierra Chicas, it was a journey. One that started with mortification (mere minutes in hitting a parked car with my bike and finding someone in the car), veered into humility (having to walk my bike up a 5k incline), eventually found redemption (finally getting and staying in the saddle), and ended with relaxation (some celebratory mate at the finish).
It concluded as it began with butterflies. I don’t connect with men easily or often, but when I do, it’s unmistakable. Juan was one of the few and our ride reminded me that the possibility of connection is out there, if only for one day.
Like the magnetic pull of the tide to the shore, repeatedly I found myself drawn to the water in our next port of call, Lima, Peru. The coastline was the first thing to greet me upon arrival and whether it was to sit and watch the surfers, go for a walk with my cuffs rolled up, or a beloved bike ride, the coast was calling me.
As I mentioned any day on two wheels is a good day, but it’s even sweeter when in good company. For this month’s ride I reached out to my Ohana looking for some reinforcements. My girls Taylor and Theresa were down to ride. We dubbed ourselves the three T’s and cruised Barranco with our guide Ronnie of Lima Bike Rental.
It was so fun to share the experience of catching the cotton candy sunset along the water to taking a pit stop for helado with my T’s. It was a good reminder for me to invite others in. It’s natural that I tend to keep the experience to myself given where my bike love started, just me, my bike, and I. Sometimes I need that sacred time and space between me, my wheels, and the road. And other times the road is meant to be shared.
I took road sharing to exponential levels in Bogotá, Colombia. Every Sunday, millions of people hit the streets for Ciclovía. The weekly event started in the 1970s as a peaceful protest for more green space and now attracts bikers, runners, and walkers looking to enjoy the open road.
A city of over ten million people that willingly shuts down several of its main roads weekly for pedestrian pleasure, is my kind of city. And Ciclovía is my kind of Sunday service: an open road, no traffic, and two wheels. I enjoyed this concrete paradise with my roommate KG (see Breathe Again: Bonding Over Sara Bareilles on a Park Bench).
I used my Spanish to both successfully rent our bikes and spare myself any embarrassing encounters about dental hygiene. Humiliation came to find us further on up the road. Up being the key word since Bogotá is perched in the Andes mountains with an elevation that tops Machu Picchu and the Mile High City of Denver, Colorado.
The streets are steeper than they first appear. One minute we're cruising and the next our legs would involuntarily come to a stop. Breathlessly I turned to KG with an incredulous WTF look in my eye and then put my foot back on the pedal. Visions of a Sunday stroll were replaced by the reality of a ride that was strenuous at times as evidenced by this seriously sweaty photo.
And I would do it again willingly. It gave me a unique way to connect with and see the city. Besides, it had been a few months since I had my ass handed to me on a saddle in Córdoba and humility is a dish best served fresh. Riding in South America taught me that my previous road experience and decades as a spin instructor did nothing to prepare me for actual mountains. I come from “the Prairie State” for crying out loud. A Chicago incline doesn’t even chart in cities well above sea level.
After surviving the mountains of South America and the narrow shoulders of South Africa, what were a couple million cars? The last stop of my world tour found me in the most populous city in the western hemisphere with the traffic to prove it, Mexico City.
Due to the size and scope of CDMX I decided against bike sharing and putting myself at the mercy of Google Maps. My city lead Sofia Margarita suggested Bikes and Munchies, which is exactly what it sounds like: a bike tour that includes food. Two of my favorite pastimes combined made for one unforgettable experience.
Sofia, me, and a few others set out with our fabulous ambassadors Fernando and Fabiola for a moveable feast. We cruised through some of the city's oldest neighborhoods while sampling some of the best street food. The rhythm of the day went, ride a little, eat a little, repeat.
Ride a little, stop at a tortilleria to see how the donuts get made. Ride a little, survey a local market and all it has to offer, crickets included (in a word, crunchy). This was a big moment for someone with a simple palette and a low threshold for risk taking. I figured if lettuce could take me down, and it did in CDMX, what’s one insect?
Our final leg led us through Chapultepec park and to our last stop, the famed churreria El Moro. Back at the starting point we celebrated the completion of the day's ride with said churros, cold beer, and a veladora of mezcal, the national spirit of Mexico.
I can’t think of a better way to commemorate the end of my bike tour around (part of) the world than with some fried dough and a cold one. It was something worth celebrating! I rode in 8 of the 12 cities and 10 of the 12 countries we called home.
Yet this journey went beyond country counting. It was a personal victory. I have always felt the need to prove my ability. Prove that I am just as smart, just as talented, just as capable as anyone else. The RY journey and each bike tour reinforced that I can do anything I put my mind to and to beware of the mind, for the mind can be more limiting than the body.
Each ride, an opportunity to see new places from a different vantage point. Each ride, a gift that reminded me why I love to travel. I love to see places through the eyes of a local and witness their enthusiasm for the place they call home.
And each ride reaffirmed my love for a place I call home - the saddle of a bike. Some of my fondest RY memories are on two wheels. During a year filled with continuous change and countless obstacles it was nice to have a constant, something I could count on for familiarity and comfort. Biking gave me the thing I needed most, the feeling of capability.
When I ride it is with a spirit of invincibility. I fully trust my physical ability in a way that I never do off the bike. I forget about my two left feet and I get lost in the flow of the ride. My mind and my body are one. I get a thrill out of riding in city traffic, which is probably why I had no hesitation about making my way through the medina or riding uphill against traffic with my girl Rockow in Valencia. When I ride I am fearless.
I planted the seed of that spirit indestructible a long time ago. Like any first love, I have a song that I associate with those first rides. “A Sort of Homecoming” is my sentimental favorite from the cassette I wore out riding my Schwinn through the park as a preteen. When I shared this memory with my sisters after we saw U2 live a few summers back, my sister told me that “the picture of little Themi riding her bike around Eldridge and falling in love with biking and U2 is just beautiful, adorable and so dorky it rounds the corner to being cool.”
I may always be rounding the corner of cool and that’s alright with me. I know this much is true. I have always been unabashed about my passions. As the last verse of “A Sort of Homecoming” beautifully captures, it doesn’t matter where I am, whenever I am in the saddle, “I am coming home.”
And your heart beats so slow
Through the rain and fallen snow
Across the fields of mourning to a light that's in the distance.
Oh, don't sorrow, no don't weep
For tonight at last I am coming home.
I am coming home
"A Sort Of Homecoming"
U2. The Unforgettable Fire. Island Records, 1984.
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Thank you Themi! What a beautiful post. I love your writing and how your emotion comes through. Thank you for sharing this, your courage, and all the beautiful moments along the way!