I was an urban rider from age 23-26 in Minneapolis, MN where I was born and raised. I was working in my field of passion for a social service non-profit after having graduated with a Business Communications degree. My job was to empower low income women with independent living skills. Despite the love of my job, I increasingly grew dissatisfied with the state of my country, and the world. This dissatisfaction grew so large another radical friend and I decided to quit our jobs, take a train to Portland and bike south. That was the extent of our plan. We saved and bought gear over the next two months for the tour. Depending on what part of the world you live in this may or may not seem radical, but where we’re from, people don’t do stuff like this. My friend and I had never biked over 10 miles, and neither of us were especially camping savvy, however we were determined. A bike shop proprietor in Minneapolis who found it just as important to mentor community members, as to sell bikes let us volunteer in exchange for sweet custom bikes and a few important lessons in bike mechanics.
Two months after arriving in Portland by train, we landed in San Francisco. We had seen many things, met many people and most importantly learned much about ourselves. I’d never felt so free. The loose plan was to bike to Mexico, however my friend and I decided after two months of being inextricably linked on our bikes it was time to part ways. She hitchhiked the rest of the way down the coast, and I was chillin’ in San Francisco with nowhere concrete to sleep, the loss of having just broken up with a partner, but also the feeling I could accomplish anything. I called a friend I had made chatting with at San Francisco’s prominent bicycle co-op when I had been fixing my bike. I informed him I was staying in San Francisco to try and establish myself by getting a job, apartment, etc. He invited me to start volunteering at the co-op as a Greeter.
I quickly became ingrained in the cycling community of San Francisco through the co-op, as most of my friends arose from this network. After 3 months of volunteering, I was eligible to become a staff member. The remarkable sheen the bike tour waxed over my life view had not worn off, and I was still excited about everything including learning more about bicycle mechanics. Most would say I am a very independent woman, and with this comes a strong desire to empower myself with skills. I followed the official procedure and posted to the listserv I had fulfilled the requirements needed to apply for staff, and that I would like the vetting process to start. This was an opportunity for staff members to vouch for me which would lead to staff status, but also for any objections. I received enthusiastic thumbs up from a handful of people, but one of the 4 female staff members raised opposition to my staff status saying it promoted the wrong message having a greeter (versus a mechanic) who was female. People spoke up on my behalf, and one of the counter arguments was I had a desire to learn mechanics, which was true.
1.5 years later and I still had a very small working knowledge of bicycle mechanics. I still feel awful not fulfilling the promise to the co-op, but ultimately to myself. I’d started work at a bike shop, but ultimately quit because at the time I felt like I didn’t have enough base knowledge of mechanics. I’d learned enough to get by in the bike world, and to be a great greeter at the co-op, but this desire to be skillful in an area that would afford me independence with my cycling lifestyle was not fulfilled. You’re probably wondering WHY I wouldn’t just learn the mechanic skills.
I experienced performance anxiety so high it was debilitating. I couldn’t concentrate on what someone was explaining to me, and when I did try to perform some repair my mind and body was so clouded by anxiety I just couldn’t do it right. The anxiety was exacerbated by the fear this would happen again when I tried the next time. Most would call me above average intelligent, athletic and sociable. The reason for this was I hid my anxiety well by avoiding situations, ie. learning mechanics, where I knew the fear would creep into my performance.
This anxiety and fear has plagued me since I was a teen, it still does. Every day I push myself trying to overcome it – I’ve tried everything from therapy, drugs, forcing myself into uncomfortable situations, and striving for holistic health. It affected me less after the West coast bike tour because I felt fulfilled, and truly free and happy. Other than that experience though, the deviation in levels of anxiety has been negligible. When I agreed to do this guest post, I knew this anxiety arose from my relationship with my father, but I didn’t know why. I wanted to challenge myself to understand why, and use this as a cathartic means to work through these fears that prevent me from being as empowered, happy, and skillful as I could be. It’s exhausting to have a constant defense mechanism to hide a part of yourself, but unfortunately the fear of humiliation, a symptom of anxiety, instills in me a stronger desire to keep hiding rather than let the fortress come down.
Having dug deep, I’m starting to make the connection between the relationship with my father and this anxiety. I love my dad very much, and that is why the hurt he’s caused me runs so deep. My father (and mother) afforded me a very comfortable middle class lifestyle, a partially paid college education, and a home free of physical and emotional violence. However, despite having lived with him for more than 18 years I have no clue who my father is. He is very closed off emotionally. We have a pattern that has been played out hundreds of times throughout my lifetime, up until the very present. I want something from my father – be it a resource or support for my decisions in life, however if he doesn’t agree with it he won’t even give me an inch. His coldness in delivering this message causes me to get emotional. I then see my emotions push him even further away. It hurts even more because my emotions are a signal to him that it’s ok to be vulnerable and to open up, but he doesn’t so I end up being the only hurt one. The coldness and disapproving nature increases, and at this point I give all my power away because all I want from him is love and support and I am completely vulnerable, but he won’t give it to me. We eventually come to some sort of conclusion, as we are a family that desires to appear reasonable. I think to myself I will never allow myself to be vulnerable again, because it always ends in powerlessness and hurt. Unfortunately, I can’t follow through with this because I desire approval from this person I am connected to in one of the most intimate ways – we are a direct product of the fabric of our parents. We are linked in such a powerful way and so this drama repeats. I realize my anxiety rears up when I feel vulnerable. It’s my bodies way of trying to protect me after such a damaging footprint has been established after 28 years of being hurt when I make myself vulnerable. To learn something new, you have to open yourself up immensely – take a risk at failing or looking stupid. The anxiety prevents me from taking this risk, but in some cases especially learning new skills the risk is worth it however my body hasn’t learned this yet.
I know many of my friends in the bike community in San Francisco couldn’t make sense of why this outspoken, independent strong woman wouldn’t learn mechanics. It didn’t connect in their mind, nor mine. Writing this article was a big step for me in testing the waters of vulnerability. I hope I will be able to report back to you in due time I’ve been able to work through some of this and do myself justice by allowing myself to be empowered with skills that complement the lifestyle I love in cycling.
Brought to you by bikesnbits

I’ve recently moved to Montpellier, France. I wanted to bring my beautiful bike with me from the UK but heard thieving was rife here, so it stayed at home. When I arrived, I found a flea market and acquired an extremely old bike for 25€, which worked reasonably well to start with. However, soon the rear wheel ceased to turn properly. I thought perhaps the rear hub was too tight so did some research to find a bike workshop. I stumbled upon Le Vieux Biclou, a workshop which invites people to use their tools to fix their own bikes with aid from other members – perfect! – a similar philosophy to the Pedallers’ Arms back home in Leeds.

When I went to the workshop, I had been in France for 2 weeks, so my french was very rusty (not unlike my ‘new’ bike). When I entered, there was a stern looking man in his sixties sitting at a desk. I asked if I could use the tools. He demanded to know whether I was already a member. I replied that it was the first time I had been there. He told me I had to be a member and shoved a membership form into my hands. I read through and it was 15€ for a year’s membership. I hesitated as it was nearly as expensive as my bike. I didn’t know if I’d like the workshop, but I felt pressured but told myself it would work out cheaper in the end, I would probably have to fix my bike a number of times throughout the year and I have no tools here with me.

I proceeded to fill out the form and handed over the money, I was instructed to do a few more things, signing a receipt, the back of my membership card, and the membership book – simple tasks, or so I hoped. But, with my French skills not up to scratch, even these were difficult procedures. The man barked incoherent instructions; swallowing consonants left, right, and centre, making no effort to speak clearly. When I asked politely for him to repeat, he obliged, but with barks just as gruff as before. It was clear I could not understand. I felt a right idiot.

Anyway, I managed to deal with the paperwork and I asked how the system worked there; could I just take tools from the shelves? Do I have to ask? Or log it in a book? Was there someone in charge? Etc. The only reply I got was that yes I can use the tools, and I was shown a price list if I wanted to buy parts new or second-hand.

I found the tools I needed and got to fixing. I realised it wasn’t the hub causing the problem. Instead, the dérailleur wasn’t mounted properly and therefore nor was the axel. As a result the wheel was not centred and was sticking on the seat stay. I managed to sort it out.
My chain was filthy and I though the best way to clean it would be to take it off. After cleaning, I put the chain back on, but something wasn’t quite right with the dérailleur and I couldn’t work out what was wrong. I looked at other peoples bikes to work it out, but still no luck. There was one man who seemed as if he worked there, but he was helping out someone else. I waited for them to finish before asking him for help.

While waiting, the man from the desk came over, saw I was stuck, and demanded why I was just standing there; why hadn’t I asked for him for help? Actually, I was too intimidated to ask, but I could hardly say that. Then he proceeded to bark more incoherent instructions at me on how to fix my bike. I managed to do so, but once again felt belittled. He hadn’t given me advice, he had shouted orders at me.

The workshop hours were coming to an end and I had finished my repairs. A man nearby was struggling to reconnect his chain, he had seen me successfully using the chain breaker earlier so asked for some help. I had a shot at it and couldn’t quite manage it, but showed him how to do it – he tried again, as did another two men, but no luck. I then had a final shot and succeeded! I was very satisfied, although it led to inevitable comments of not believing a “girl” fixed it.

As I was going to leave, I was told the “patron” wanted to speak to me (i.e. the man at the desk). The “patron” told me I had to clean the floors of the workshop. I didn’t understand why, I wondered whether it was because I was female, or I had done something wrong, yet I went to do it anyway as I had some time to spare.

I was given a wooden broom, a cloth rag, and a bucket of soapy water. Naturally, I went to start sweeping the floor with the broom.
“NON! Pas comme ça!”
I started.
The man barked that I was doing it all wrong, and ordered me to use the rag instead.
Not knowing the French for broom, cloth rag, bucket, sweep, dunk, or squeeze, did not help matters. I dunked the rag in the water and the put it on the floor and started pushing it about.
“NON! Pas comme ça!”
Did I never clean the floors at home?
I started to feel smaller and smaller.
He’s shouting how I need to dunk the cloth, squeeze it, put it on the floor, then use the broom to push it about the floor, and I’m looking clueless and shrugging my shoulders.
He asks me sarcastically if I understand French. I reply that no, not very well: I’m English.
He snarls that I should say if I don’t understand. I personally thought I had made it perfectly clear I did not understand.
Once I finally understood his instructions, I finished cleaning the floors in his special way, in tears.
I left the workshop feeling about as big as a baby’s toenail.

Since then, I have spoken with friends who informed me that the workshop is an “Association” and therefore every member bears as much responsibility as the next – much like a co-operative. Everyone needs to pitch in with the cleaning and the set up every once in a while – this I have no problem with, actually, I support it. The problem is that I was not welcomed into the space, shown around, informed how the Association worked, made to feel comfortable in the space, as a newcomer, as somebody who doesn’t know everything about bikes, or as a woman. That is the problem. On top of this, the “patron” was not the “patron” (boss), but in fact an “animateur” (co-ordinator or leader). I have since read information on the workshop’s website, which explains that the role of the animateur is to “inform” the public on how the workshop functions and to “welcome” new members to the workshop. I can firmly say that neither of these two specifications were met on my first visit to the workshop.

Something else went wrong with my bike, and it took me a month to work up the courage to return to the workshop, and even then, I ensured that the same animateur was not timetabled to be there when I returned. I have been back twice since and I have observed new members being shown around and inducted into the Association. Everyone has been very friendly, and I now feel comfortable and confident to go to the workshop often. But I’m still avoiding that man from the desk.