Following from Part 1, Zsófia Vera, a French 34-year-old BMX rider who started BMX 3 years ago, wrote about her return to riding after lockdown. Enjoy Part 2 below.

The game only ends if you stop getting back up.

In the fall of 2019, I wrote a detailed account of how I came to pick up a BMX bike in my early thirties. The process inspired the unravelling of a template of sorts that might be used to bring even more dream projects into reality.
As I prepare to celebrate my third “BMX birthday” this summer, there are a few lessons that I keep learning (and relearning) through my practice which I’d like to share with you.

It’s been an especially ripe year for cementing these lessons, as the panoply of pandemic restrictions has made it harder to ride and to explore parks away from home; and the absence of local and global contests such as Fise, Vans Pro Cup and *ahem* the freaking Olympics where freestyle BMX would have debuted as a sport in 2020 have made it challenging to keep a momentum going.

For regular riders, these events offer a wild burst of inspiration and awe that we can then carry with us into our next session at the park. Seeing top riders such as Angie Marino, Hannah Roberts and Nina Buitrago accomplish crazy feats in a moving display of community and sisterly support is like rocket fuel to any rider, female or otherwise, old or young.

Any sport practice holds the potential to a be great allegory for life, as the lessons learnt in sport may strengthen motivation and self belief outside of the practice as well as within it. Extreme sports are even more prone to serve as intersectional metaphors due to the high level of risk involved, and I hope these lessons will resonate with you whether you’re a rider or not.

Every time I pick up riding, after even a week’s break, it takes me some time to get reacquainted with this part of myself, with the fearful part.

1. HUMILITY KEEPS CIRCLING BACK

Last week I took advantage of a sunny spell in the midst of a positively wet month of May and I headed to the skatepark. It was around 9am and I was pleased to see that not only were all the ramps dry but the park was still relatively empty.

I headed to the vert (as in : vertical) ramp where I usually do a couple rounds to warm up—although I could easily spend entire sessions there, as the riding is so smooth, and hypnotic with its back and forth rhythm.
This time however, I got dizzy from said back and forth pretty quickly. My usual flow was rusty from a practice that has been scattered since the country had been juggling lockdowns, curfews, and winter. My riding was clumsy, heavy and I felt myself rigidly holding onto my handlebar, my mind steeped in the fear paralysis that occurs when it is asked to assimilate too much information at once.

When I’m out of practice, I notice that there’s a whole array of elements that my mind will want to acknowledge during my ride.

I’ll notice that one side of the ramp is too sunny while the other one is not, for instance, which results in a momentary blinding as I turn to engage in the opposite curve and, for a brief moment, I can’t see where my bike is landing.

There’s also the anxiety that surges at the seemingly delirious speed I may possess, especially when I let myself be carried by the bike and surrender to the heights it wishes to eject me towards. It’s as if I’m no longer used to having my body carried through space at such a fast pace.

In these moments, my mind interferes.

It starts with a gentle nudge—this is some pretty unusual stuff you’re doing, it seems to say. Then, it moves to a more alarmed pitch—you’re going really high! you’re jumping into the air!—until at one point it becomes a mumbo jumbo of unintelligible sounds that seep into the muscles and veins and, if I’m not careful, it comes to paralyse my body with debilitating fear.

Every time I pick up riding after even a week’s break, it takes me some time to get reacquainted with this part of myself, with the fearful part, and I proceed to calm it down, to soothe it through repetitive practice, until it realigns with my movement and breeds an approximate confidence in my abilities.

Then, as soon as I achieve a regular rhythm of practice, the humility will reappear each time I fall and am stopped in my tracks. My mind resets and it clenches itself into apprehension once again, so I go ahead and try to talk some sense into it, reassuring myself that I’m okay.

This may sound like a huge mental toll only because I’m attentive to the minute progression from fear to a sense of ease.

It fascinates me to observe how quickly the mind can coil into a knot, which, through patient mental conversations, one may smooth out into daring it to try again.

The lesson in humility a powerful one.

No matter how long you’ve been doing something, there will come a time when you’re faced with having gone back to a lower level of expertise where you’ll have to relearn everything that you’ve seemingly forgotten.
Fortunately, it’s often less of a relearning but more of a rediscovery as you excavate parts of yourself that probably just need a bit of dusting off and a fresh paint of intention, so to speak, to get moving again.
With dedication and a strong understanding of why you’re engaged in the practice in the first place — which, for myself and BMX, is simply the fact that it brings me much joy — you may find the strength to keep going, and to accept the non-linear growth process that the practice offers.

Sure, it’s convenient to use the weather and the lockdown restrictions as excuses for not riding, but another huge reason is very much internal.

2. MENTAL STRENGTH IS BUILT THROUGH OPPOSITION

I’m still intimidated every single time I go to a park.

I’m nervous when I go to my local park and I’m flat out filled with dread when I enter a park I’ve never ridden before.

With the latter, it takes me about 15 to 30 minutes to even attempt a first line, as I lurk on the peripheries trying to take in every detail, every corner, ascertaining the rhythm of other riders so as not to risk snaking them.

I’m not particularly skilled in BMX. I enjoy riding and that’s pretty much it. I’m in my mid thirties and frankly, I’m just making the most out of the physical fitness I still have, while contending with an inner torrent of fear I’ve been attempting to manage for three decades.

Before the psychologically debilitating weirdness of 2020, I had a strong learning curve and had progressed to jumping over stuff and even doing a micro airing out on the vert ramp. When I began riding, my focus was sharp and fuelled by the urgency of making up for lost time. I progressed fast.

Then, it stopped and something got lost along the way.
As parks reopened, I’ve been learning to be okay with the bare minimum which is to ride, do my best, and enjoy it. It’s boiled down to the simple idea that as long as I can get out of the house and head to the park, I’m alright—but that’s hardly dependent solely on external factors.

Sure, it’s convenient to use the weather and the lockdown restrictions as excuses for not riding, but another huge reason is very much internal.

While the overall number of girls and women riding my local skatepark has grown since I began going there, I’m still the only woman on a bike most of the time. There are crews of female skaters but BMX remains exceedingly male dominated here. This is definitely not the case everywhere, as female BMX is on a phenomenal level right now , but it is in my area, and that is where my experience is built.

I’m also frequently the oldest rider in the park at any given point. Kids look at me with deep confusion as I put my helmet on, probably not computing how a woman who looks like she could be their mom or their school teacher could also ride a bike.

As a result, I’m often faced with the acute self awareness that going to the skatepark brings.

It’s a place where I can’t hide but where I also often feel invisible.

Granted, this sensation stems partly from circumstances and mostly of my own neuroses. And that is the reason I keep going back : I‘m hoping that by showing up consistently, I might rise above the gnawing feeling of inadequacy. I consider it a victory when I am able to get to a park and resist the urge to immediately leave.

The entire affair of circumnavigating the park endlessly before entering is something I’ve seen reflected in young girls who come to the park for the first time. I see them as they approach the park, all geared up and brimming with hope. They show up with their brothers who swiftly ensue to confidently race into the park, without a care in the world. In contrast, the girls stay on the sidelines for a while. They watch. They don’t race in. Sometimes, they never take the plunge. When I see these girls, I make sure they see me riding at some point, to let them know that they are welcome here.

In spite of this, I still find the skatepark to be an effective practice ground for anyone who feels different to come build their confidence, and make their mark. The place does give you the freedom to simply be who you are. I love seeing the queer babies build their identity in the park or, on occasion, I’ll catch another fellow “oldie” in their mid thirties or forties show up with broken bones, a knowing smile and an undying passion for riding.

By stepping into the park, the bowl, the vert, anywhere, you declare that you do have your place here.

The more you do it, the more you jump into the deep end, then the more you’ll start to actually believe it.
As a result, you’ll become convinced that, contrary to what you might have been taught, you actually have a place everywhere.

In time, this belief will seep into your very bones and take residence in your heart, and it will bolster you with courage wherever you go.

It’s always going to be one lone rider facing the ramps, but the community stands behind them, cheering them on.

3. COMMUNITY ELEVATES INDIVIDUAL EFFORT

I go ride early in the morning these days because I’m hyper aware of my rusty skills.
Frankly, I’m even a bit ashamed to show up at the park when there’s the risk of more people being there. I feel like those peak times should be kept available for “people who actually can ride”.
I warned you : I’m pretty neurotic.

Yet in spite of my apprehension that I’ll be judged, told to go away, or even spat at (!) as soon as I enter the premises, there hasn’t been one occasion when that’s happened. This might be due to my heavily tattooed, fairly androgynous physique discouraging anyone to “mess with me”; although I prefer leaning towards the explanation that the BMX community is filled with some of the kindest and most supportive dudes I’ve met.

These are folk who brim with creativity and a courage that often borders on recklessness. There’s a sense of camaraderie through kinship rather than language. It’s a friendship borne out of gathering consistently in the same place and chipping away at one’s work. The recognition is one that is inherently empathetic because each party, pro or novice, understands the work and the energy it takes to progress at this sport.
BMX riders are fuelled with a relentless passion for their craft, and they support one another sincerely, albeit with a healthy dose of competition.

In that sense, BMX is resonant with the creative process.
Riders are akin to artists crafting their expertise in solitude before sharing it with their peers.
Like artists, they spend time developing their unique style through trial and error, and like artists they keep a close eye on their mentors to try out elements that might adorn their own bag of tricks. The solitary work is necessary because in the end, this is not a team sport. It’s always going to be one lone rider facing the ramps, but the community stands behind them, cheering them on.

Lately, I’ve been resisting engaging with the community because I’ve persuaded myself that I’m other—unskilled, a woman, older—which is a shame because I’m banning myself out of a community that has only welcomed me. This reminds me how often we may unconsciously shut ourselves out of a situation—or a partnership, or a job, or a collaboration—because we presume that the other party will not deem us worthy.

We preemptively exclude ourselves so as not to bear the brunt of rejection from the other.

What starts as a self protective act ends up being a way of isolating ourselves further from the group. This urge to protect ourselves has probably worsened in the past year.

As we tentatively go back out into the world, we may find ourselves less inclined to trust others, sheltered as we’ve been in our homes and remote ways of being and of relating to people. While it’s always healthy to acknowledge and defend the boundaries that we define for ourselves, I do hope that we may have the perspicacity to discern when we’re being overprotective of our the space and time and energy and love that we may offer to others as a result of fear.
At least, that’s what I’m working on, and as with most life lessons of late, it began at the skatepark.

Thanks for reading.
All photo credits are my own.
See more skatepark photography here.

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