When I was little, I always wanted to look like my father. I cut my hair very short, had sport at heart and brown eyes like him, even if they were actually green. Dad trained for his 42-kilometre race on summer weekends. The Montreal Marathon was just around the corner, so his feet were treading gravel on Saturday mornings. Alongside him, my sky-blue bike, complete with wicker basket, braved the wind and the dew. I rode while he ran.
I'd tried running myself once. A 5-kilometer race to impress her. I was last at the finish line.
My bike was slipping faster than my steps.
We set off side by side in silence. I could hear his sneakers treading the dusty country lanes and the rubber of my car pressing against the ground. The sun would find its way through the leaves of the mature trees in my area, and I'd let myself be carried away by this moment that belonged to us. Sometimes Dad would give me a push when my legs got tired. Often, I'd hand him the bottle of water lying in my basket.
Memories are created, forged and engraved.
Dad finished his marathon foaming at the mouth and sweat pouring down his forehead. My blue bike gathered dust over the winter in the garage next to the house. Summer was over. The seasons flew by. I had grown up.
Later, much later, I took up cycling again. Country lanes gave way to city tarmac. Giant trees were replaced by stop signs and horns. The furrows in the earth have been replaced by potholes, my hair loose in the wind by a helmet that's a little tight, and I've learned to deal with this reality. Carelessness turned into vigilance. Cycling took on a whole new meaning. A means of transport, an automatism, a harmless gesture.
Then it was my turn to fill my children's memory boxes and revive my own. Successively, I accompanied them in this race for balance on two rubber wheels. They tasted the sense of freedom that comes with cycling. All but one. Attempts failed.
Not every child enjoys the spontaneity of getting on a bike and braving the horizon. Not every child pedals off into the sunset. Where there is difference, there is also exclusion, and I strongly believe that we should all reject this notion.
Our family of athletes doesn't let our big difference sit on the bench next to them. Nor should our society bully families and let a youngster fail to cross the finish line for lack of a suitable bike and equipment.
I started looking, searching, digging to adapt our activities and challenge the obstacles to emancipate us. Cycling, like all family activities, should be accessible to you, to me, to us, to them... to everyone.
There are boxes, closed eyes and dead ends. There are also the blinders we tear off, the hands we hold out and the stories we reinvent... together.
