Community Care

There is an indescribable pleasure in riding downhill with a group of your friends. I love the sensation of the fast breeze tickling my neck. The cool air feels especially good after a steep, sweaty climb. As my wheels pick up speed, I release an enthusiastic scream of “wheeeeee.” Other riders hoot and holler too. At once, I feel joyful, triumphant, and in sync with my colleagues. Together, we exclaim our enthusiasm on two wheels. 

After being wiped out going 30 mph downhill, it was hard to get back to that lighthearted downhill glee. I have had to do a few versions of trauma desensitization. One opportunity for creative healing came from an unexpected ride in Alex Benigno’s trailer. 

Long before he became Atlanta’s beloved Magnet Man, Alex Bengino was cycling with the city’s group rides. During the 2023 spring bike camping weekend organized by the Atlanta Cycling Festival, I had a chance to get to know Alex better. I learned that he, also like me, had recently chanced into cycling with these groups. In riding around the city, we found comradery and fun.

On our camping adventure along the Silver Comet Trail, Alex brought his elliptical bike. I was curious about this seat-less, step-through bike. While we were in the comfort of a patch of grass around our campsite, I tried to ride his special bike. It was unwieldy and made me a bit nervous. Still, I was intrigued. Later I learned he used this special type of bike because Alex had some injuries that made the standard bike uncomfortable. The elliptical bike, Alex, assured me, has helped him get in the best shape of his life.

A few weeks later, I had the accident that put me out of cycling for a while. During my wheelchair time, I was driven around Atlanta by my friends. As a passenger, I started watching street traffic differently. I looked a few car lengths ahead to anticipate any prospective collisions in front of me. From my wipeout, I realized I had developed anxiety around roads, crowds, and going downhill.

Shortly after I regained my (car-based) independence, a crew of us cyclists foodies made dinner plans to Chai Pani in Decatur. That Friday afternoon, Alex rolled up with his elliptical bike and a trailer in tow. I was perplexed about the purpose of the trailer. Then, Alex showed us his system of picking up metal debris from the ground with magnets underneath his trailer.

I looked at the sturdy construction of his trailer and cheekily asked if he would give me a ride in the trailer. To my surprise, he was open to the idea. I hopped in and he rode his bike, pulling me in the trailer around the Chai Pani parking lot. His short ride made me cautiously optimistic about my ability to get back to cycling. Later that evening, our dinner crew moved to the Brick Store Pub in Decatur Square. Alex pulled me in his cycle-powered trailer the few blocks there.

I had seen Alex riding with our group rides; he is both sensible and cautious. After our spin in Decatur, I felt moved to ask for a longer ride! His calm demeanor and conscientious riding would be the perfect way for me to get back on the road. We asked our ride organizer at Midweek Roll if it was kosher for me to ride like this for a group trip.  Luckily, Midweek Roll created an abbreviated (and modified route) to accommodate my trauma-healing ride! Alex reinforced the trailer (seat). I wore my helmet and was eager to roll with my crew again.

Though I was anxious about not being in control of my own movements, I trusted Alex’s level-headedness and construction skills. I noticed that Alex carefully avoided potholes and rough patches in the road. I tried to keep my cool as we turned corners. As he pulled me along on the back of his elliptical bike, I sensed that I was slowly overcoming the angst of being out in the streets. It felt so good to be spinning around again with the rest of our friends. By the end of the ride, I felt a slow return to the enthusiastic celebration of downhills. It was almost as if I were riding bikes again!

Before he exploded on the scene with his Magnet Man Instagram account, Alex was doing kind things for people. His sense of civic responsibility enriches our community. Through Alex’s help, I was able to overcome the anxiety I felt on the road. I feel lucky to be the beneficiary of his kindness. His concern for others around him inspired his magnetic public service project. Alex is a brilliant example of how we can help make the world a little better, one thoughtful action at a time.

Meeting with Joy

You and 100+ of your cycling friends are rolling up to the intersection of Memorial and Boulevard. Eagerly, you pedal forward. As you get closer, you see Jordan in a bright vest at the crosswalk. Pass the intersection, Monica is calling us to tighten up and keep moving. It is 7:45 pm, and we have just rolled out of Estoria for one of our group rides.

The Atlanta Car Driver from their cage sees a green light on Memorial Drive at Boulevard. They wonder why traffic is not moving. It is 7:45 pm and the rush hour should have died down now. They strain over the steering wheel trying to make sense of what is going on ahead.  In the distance, they can make out a lone cyclist wearing a colorful vest in the crosswalk. If the cage windows are rolled down, the driver hears a flurry of mixed musical notes carried on the breeze. A parade of colored lights goes by. Finally, the motorist realizes the entire intersection is filled with bicycles. They simply must wait.

Our social rides can shut down big intersections. We designate a corker to stand and help slow down traffic. It is an immense feeling. Our two-wheeled posse is in charge; if even for just a few minutes. Motorists are sometimes surprised. Some take pictures of us. Some wave. Others get grumpy. Riding in Atlanta in a cycling group here feels a little bit provocative. How did I get here?

I often sat shotgun as my dad drove our golden Volvo station wagon on errands around Atlanta. From the passenger seat, I learned early to look out for the little nuances of driving here. We passed through streets like Briarcliff Road, and Lawrenceville Highway and I noticed how my father paid attention. He was defensive driving to avoid potholes, manage people’s road rage, and keep all the Peachtrees straight.

In the late 90s, my parents moved from DeKalb County into Gwinnett County. Around the time that I was about to start high school in Snellville, I felt like we lived in the boonies. Rarely did I see a pedestrian. I no longer saw the MARTA bus around. I thought there was no way to explore without having a car.  Atlanta suburbia is almost certain imprisonment without wheels.

When I could get in or borrow a car, it represented a separate space. An identity, a universe, a freedom. The car around that time began to represent an escape. It was my chance to reign on the streets… if I had the money to buy gas. Over time, this shiny car image began to rust. The car went from being the freedom to a restraint.

When I went to law school in Baltimore, I borrowed my mother’s silver Volvo. Sometimes it was a haven and respite from the Inner Harbor. But her car was expensive to maintain, and I always had to worry if it would be OK where I parked it.  The first summer of law school, I spent in Los Angeles doing a legal internship. I lived car-free in West Hollywood.  Having no car then became its own identity. There, I learned the way Californians greet one another: What Do You Drive?

At none of these times in my past did I ever consider using a bicycle as my main form of transport. It was only when I took a long stint teaching in Japan that I realized the joys of bike riding.

Teaching English in Tokyo, within a rigid, hierarchal high school was often difficult. The English language has so many subtleties and nuances. There were times when my work as a foreign language debate coach became spiritually exhausting. In addition to English proficiency, I wanted to instill a sense of global citizenship and responsibility in my students. Between the language barrier, some words stopped making sense. On those days when words did not make sense, and colleagues were hard to find, I simply wanted to run away from my walkable west Tokyo neighborhood.

It was there, in Tokyo that cycling became second nature to me.  The city is flat and has great cycling infrastructure. After work, I knew I always had my bike to come back to. It was on days like that I realized the singular joy of riding a bike. Parking is easy, and Google Maps makes it simple to find destinations worth exploring. On beautiful afternoons after class, I would ride along flower-lined roads. On the weekends, I would follow rivers into new neighborhoods. I was living in line with my sense of exploration, and freedom. It was so refreshing to be unencumbered by the bulky violence and expensive responsibility of a car. This free type of transport moved me. Cycling in Japan changed me.

I returned to Atlanta cautiously in 2022. I had not lived full-time in Atlanta since 2012. Changes were everywhere. Most people in the ATL had a car. They also seemed only to notice other cars on the road. Post-pandemic, it seemed that people were comfortable in their oblivion. The dichotomy between Tokyo and Atlanta felt sharp.

Though I never really thought of myself as a cyclist, I had the urge and desire to roll on two wheels. By dumb luck, I chanced upon group riding here in Atlanta. Initially, it was terrifying and exciting. Through these rides, I saw that the Beltline had revived and transformed Atlanta in many ways.  The slow congregating of communities and burgeoning of new scenes made for so many new places to explore.

Our social rides are a call to enjoy the day with one another.  So many different types of people show up to ride together. For me, there is no better calling than to live up to and take part in. It is a moral imperative to nourish your joy. Riding in Atlanta began as a continuation of a love I discovered when I was in Tokyo. Yet, the riding here, in Atlanta, and as a part of this community has changed me.

Who is there on the other side? Say hello!

Do you have friends who might appreciate a writer turning into an author? Or maybe someone who appreciates anecdotes from the road?

Book Announcement!

We all miss M+M! It was a community alive and in action. We looked forward to seeing our friends. A special buzz took over the block around 420 Edgewood Avenue from on Mondays around 7 pm. People of all sorts came together to ride bikes. There were road bikes, gravel bikes, Walmart bikes, vintage bikes, and very snazzy custom builds. Open to any and everyone. The beauty and freedom of it. It was free to join, fun to do, and left us energized for the week. The absence of the M+M ride still stings through us on Mondays.

I spent lots of this past winter quietly contemplating the changes over the last year. I gleaned lessons, insights, and stories from the outpouring of community support after that last M+M ride. People who saw my tumble were spooked. I imagine that any of the 400 other people there could have ended up leaving in an ambulance. The experience changed us all. I felt moved by all the care and consideration the community showed. The support I received is a blessing and a gift. I am certain it helped me heal faster.

To share about this transformation, I have decided to write a book on how the cycling community’s response has changed me. I will share portions of it here as I develop more of the manuscript. My working title is Crashing Into Community and it will be ready to publish this summer 2024. A brief introduction to the book is below.

Crashing Into Community

An Atlanta Cycling Story

The last M+M ride took place on Monday, May 15, 2023. It was a gorgeous day to ride. It was the third official day of events in the 2023 Atlanta Cycling Festival. Our friends were there. We were feeling festive. At Georgia Beer Garden, an ACF photographer was taking pictures of the scene of cyclists. I rolled up just in time to photobomb Earl of Earl’s Bike Shop.

I left that ride in an ambulance with two broken limbs and one less tooth among other lacerations. Later, two friends showed up at Grady Trauma Center. Lis brought balms for my spirit. Paulino peeled clementines for me. One group of friends was out looking for my car. Between the GoFundMe Campaign, my Facebook post, and word-of-mouth, many people heard about my accident. 

I think that this could have happened to anybody. Going from physically independent to requiring a wheelchair roller is life whiplash. Very few of us would have the emotional and financial resources to tackle such trauma on our own. In the many quiet and indoor hours I had last year, I contemplated jarring “What if?” questions.

From so many of my intertwined communities, I had enormous support. Even new friends came out of the woodwork to wish me well. I sense there was a two-way healing process through my newsletter and socials. A recovery-focused mindset and this support network helped me focus on gratitude.

Within our cycling community, after my spill, I saw many changes. On June 12^th, M+M announced that they would no longer have weekly rides. Pre-ride instructions at Bike Church changed. Midweek Roll appended ride guidelines to their sites. The Georgia Beer Garden announced its closure. Earl’s is now closed. Over the ordeal of wheelchair time, physical therapy, and returning to cycling, I feel we all transformed.

This brush with tragedy renewed my vigor to live my best life. In my forthcoming book, Crashing into Community, I share how community support helped me revisit my definition of health, and moved me closer to my purpose. I will share the journey of healing with a start at why I even got on a bike in Atlanta, a little about falling in love with cycling abroad, and what hopes I have for this community.

As I write, I invite and welcome feedback on my writing.

What do you want to hear about? How does this sit with you? Thoughts on what you would like me to cover? What part of my recovery and healing journey do you want to know about?

Are there members of the community who would like to follow along with the stories and reflections?

Any that would appreciate this specific post:

Thank you for reading along! Your comments and feedback are my love language!