Geo has spent more years in more schools than you have, but has yet to finish an actual degree. Her insightful husband is sure she has ADD, and she is sure she needs a key lime tart from Kneaders. A devoted lover of said adorable husband, public libraries, film, thrift shopping, walking, bike riding, photography, knitting and more crafts than really ought to be mentioned, oral history, cooking, and of course, writing, she has plenty of reasons to stay awake into the wee hours. Geo and her husband run Tryst Press, a letterpress studio in their home sweet hometown of Provo, UT, and together they have recently begun to explore amateur filmmaking and podcasting. Geo blogs On Bright Street. Thanks Geo!

It’s amazing how much effort it takes sometimes to get the wheels turning. When I was younger and more naive, I had a painful introduction to mountain bikes. It started when an acquaintance set me up with his friend. K. was a long-time mountain biker and racer. I had grown up cycling too . . . with a banana seat, coaster brakes, kickstand, plastic basket, metal bell, handgrip streamers, colored spoke-straws, and sparkly purple paint job. As a teen I graduated to a slightly taller version, deep green, without the extras; I thought it was sophisticated. I effortlessly rode the lush flat loop roads near my home in the Deep South. Only after I moved to mountainous Utah did the ability to shift gears become a concern for me, but I still didn’t have to break a sweat; my western wheels were attached to a VW Bug.

K. and I lived in neighboring cities. Once he rode to see me, we went out in my Bug, and later on I dropped him home. The next morning I decided it was time to get back into cycling and take him his bike. I hoped to impress him with a long-distance delivery, complete with an easy smile and a healthy glow. I straddled the too-tall frame and aimed it north toward K.’s. It was a lovely rolling route, uncultivated and uninterrupted by development. The road was not a smooth stretch; it proved a more strenuous ride than I’d anticipated. What was my problem? Altitude? No, I was afraid to shift gears. I didn’t understand dérailleurs and didn’t want to upset K. by altering his arrangement, and so I left the bike in the last gear he had used.

The trip turned torturous as I rounded a corner and started uphill. The road was steep. Limited by my determination to make the trip in a single gear, I saw only one practical alternative: to dismount and push the bike—but that would have meant defeat, so I rejected it. I stood up on the wrong side of the toe clips (I was scared of those too) and strained downward on the pedals. It’s a wonder I didn’t collapse into traffic. I avoided looks from passing motorists as I wobbled and crawled. Beyond the hill’s last sloping orchard, my hot face red as an apple and my body reduced to steaming sauce, I reached the crest and rested until I could breathe normally. No way would I show up at K.’s looking as beaten as I felt. I was proud of myself. My heart pounded but the last few blocks were mercifully easy. I stumbled off the bike and parked it with trembling hands, then straightened myself and rang his doorbell. He greeted me with charmed surprise: “You rode all the way up here?” His new girlfriend was a biker! It was all so gratifying until I assured him I hadn’t disturbed his gears.

First he laughed at me, incredulous. Then his temper derailed and he lectured me hard about the potential horrors done to a bicycle’s shifting system when it’s operated incorrectly, not to mention the miserable injuries to a rider’s body. Shamed and persuaded, I quickly got familiar with his Shimano gears. Soon after I even bought my own mountain bike.

I wish I could say I also learned a deeper lesson that day, but it was four years before I said goodbye to the racer, and longer before I could clearly see that often I created my own difficulties in life by yielding to fears—of the unknown, of failure, of others. There were many hills I had struggled up because I hadn’t understood, explored, or trusted tools already in my hands—and wouldn’t venture subtle shifts in attitude, speed, or technique that could have made my journey pleasant and streamlined my travel.

Even though I ride my bike properly now, I don’t move quickly up inclines. Sometimes I get off and walk the steepest parts. Occasionally my chain derails as I switch gears. None of that matters. I take my time. I enjoy the ride. I appreciate the process. When self-knowledge, curiosity, and change are prized, the shift comes naturally.