Maria Arozamena, Illustrations Editor

I fell off my bike last Saturday morning.

I was on my way up Hillhouse, the cool remnants of night air pushing my hair back from my forehead as I sped up the street. The deserted one-way lane felt like a boulevard, empty of the parked cars that usually line both sides. I was weaving back and forth, enjoying the rare space and solitude of the normally busy street. And then my bag, dangling from the handlebar, got trapped in the spokes of my front wheel and I tumbled: arms and legs all tangled in the pedals and handlebars that still carried all the momentum of my pumping legs from a moment before.

Someone across the intersection gasped, a squirrel scampered across the street and I sat on the ground in shell-shocked silence. I hadn’t fallen off my bike since I was in the fifth grade, when I wiped out in front of the entrance to the emergency room at my local hospital. I limped home, tears washing lines through the dirt on my cheeks, blood dripping down my shin and soaking into the hem of my socks. I didn’t go to ballet class that day, my knee tender and my pride bruised.

I looked around to see who had let out the gasp, but the few pedestrians on their morning coffee runs hurried on in a collective act of silent mercy. The bag was wedged tightly between the spokes, and I tugged on it and tugged on it until it finally released, streaked by lines of grease and dirt where it had been held by the metal. I remounted my bike a moment later, and my legs shook as I pressed each pedal in turn. A dull pain crept up my thigh, no longer kept at bay by the adrenaline.

I’ve nothing to show for my Icarian fall except for a few scrapes and bruises. My bike is fine and my ego isn’t bent out of shape. But I’ve been carrying the bruises around with me this week, watching the color develop like a Polaroid picture.

I didn’t have a bike my first year at Yale. I was intimidated by the New Haven drivers and the never-ending network of one-way streets. I much preferred to run from Linsly Chittenden Hall to Watson rather than bike, where I frequently arrived at my discussion section sweaty and five minutes late. I didn’t leave New Haven; the furthest I ventured was to Wooster Square or the Atticus up in East Rock.

But at the beginning of second year, I scoured Facebook Marketplace in the weeks leading up to school until I found the perfect little white bike. It was my first time biking in a city. I could hear the cars behind me, drawing nearer until they whooshed past with their terrifying speed and hulking masses. Each one washed me in waves of terror, and the anticipation in the interim was just as terrifying. I felt vulnerable: defenseless to the whims of the New Haven commuter. Eventually, I acclimatized. I realized that I could go faster than the cars, biking through walk signs and giving myself a head start.

There is more to New Haven than Yale. Go to East Rock and West Rock and the space in between. I biked to Lighthouse Point Park that weekend to watch the sunset—a place I hadn’t even known existed beforehand. I’ve lost track of all the places I’ve gone with my bike — the beautiful and the ugly — but I’m better for it.

I’m glad that I fell off my bike if I’m being honest. I’ve mastered the art of biking in a skirt and heels and it’s been getting to my head. By now, I’ve learned that when you fall, you untangle yourself from the spokes, get back up and keep biking. If you’re a first year — or not — consider getting a bike. And consider falling off of it. And if you see me, skirt streaming majestically in the wind as I bike down Prospect: wave. I’ll try to wave back without falling.