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Patty taught me how to ride my bike down the stairs. She was a confident junior and I was a brand new freshman at university, so I did everything she told me. “Balance!” she’d say. “Stand up on the pedals,” she encouraged. “Stay light,” she warned. I set my nervous caution aside and bump, bump, bumped straight down the long flight of stairs outside the Marriott Center. It was the quickest shortcut to class on those mornings I overslept and I became pretty confident.

 

Patty taught me that riding my bike in the snow and ice was less slippery than walking. I survived cold, icy, snowy winters by gliding my bike along to class, to the grocery store, to the library, silently cursing everyone else who seemed to have a heated car. My lips froze solid, my gloves leaked in air and moisture, and my boots got stuck on the pedals, but I rode. And rode. And rode.

 

Riding my bike became an outlet for me, a way to push myself, to make new friends, to do what I thought wasn’t possible. Later when I took a mountain biking class to fulfill a PE credit, I learned the real way to fix a flat tire, refasten the chain, and how to navigate almost any trail. It started that day looking down that steep flight of stairs, bump bumping along to the bottom.

 

Patty was proud.