The making of that cyclist

I've finally become the cyclist I never thought I would become. It was a gradual process that has crept up on me over the course of logging many confidence-boosting miles, and no, I'm not referring to the fact that, for the first time ever this morning, I both pedaled hard down the winding Harlem hill and managed to pass two other, relatively fit cyclists on the way down (although this was definitely a significant "first").

For a long time, I thought there was no way I would ever be that cyclist, because I'm simply not capable of such obvious displays of self-assurance. I'm not that cyclist, who can hold an unwavering focus and block out everything and everyone else on the road. I’m not that cyclist, whose only concern is to maintain my cadence and seamlessly shift between gears. Surely I'm not that cyclist, who can forget, in one split second, every manner my mother ever taught me and thumb my nose up at proper social etiquette. But I've had too many rides on which I've preemptively stored tissues in the back of my jersey and awkwardly reached for them while on a straightaway, trying daintily to wipe my nose with one hand and not let the tissue blow away altogether, or on which, after giving up on the tissues, the terry cloth patch of my cycling gloves simply ends up sopping wet within 20 minutes.

Proper manners or not, necessity has turned me into that cyclist. I guess it's in keeping with this week's theme of just letting go.