Like Riding a Bike

Yesterday at 5:30 a.m. I was sitting at the stoplight at 11th & Warren in the pouring rain. The light turned green, and as I twisted the right grip to accelerate and felt the balance of two wheels beneath me, I had a flash of the first time I had ever felt this sensation of balance. (I will admit that for a moment I worried that my life was flashing before my eyes and perhaps I was about to get hit by a bus.)

I can't say for sure how old I was, but I remember my sister teaching me to ride a bicycle. We were on 3rd Avenue, the street that lay one block west from our house, and had minimal traffic. There were no sidewalks on this street. The edge of the road simply butted up against the lawns, or lack of lawns, in front of houses. I was on what had been my Aunt Teresa's little green bike with the banana seat. One minute my sister was holding onto the back, and the next minute she was a half of a block behind me, cheering me on. I don't remember if I stopped myself or wiped out, but I do remember that first sensation of balance on two wheels.

As this memory came to the surface, I was filled with a rush of gratitude for my sister. What a wonderful moment in time. What an important thing she taught me. I was not the easiest of students, I was the kind of kid who was afraid of everything. It probably took a lot of effort for my sister to get me on that bike. For the rest of my life, the expression "It's like riding a bike" is a credit to this person I've always looked up to, in more ways than one, my big sister.

Stanley Cup Coma

I'm sitting here watching what is probably the 20th game of 200 of the Stanley Cup playoffs. For those of you who weren't raised on hockey, this is the World Series of the sport. And let me tell you, they love to drag this stuff out. The playoffs start with 16 teams that play the best of 7 against each other until two are left standing. As you can imagine, this takes awhile.

Having grown up in Minnesota, I am fully steeped in the sport of hockey. One of the only family vacations I can remember involved a road trip to the United States Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth, Minnesota. I suffered from car sickness, so was doped up on Dramamine for most of that vacation. What I remember most about the USHHOF was the ridiculously comfortable leather chairs they had. I snoozed like an old pro while my Dad reveled in what was his version of Mecca. My Mom and sister couldn't wait to get out of there, but I was happy as a clam on my little leather cushion, a much-needed reprieve from being crammed in the back seat of the car between my brother and sister.

Hockey was a fact of life in my childhood home. My brothers both played hockey as young men, and my Dad played on a league (the Augsburg Old Goats Hockey League, or AOGHL) until he was in his 40s. He only stopped after being severely checked during a game that resulted in a dislocated shoulder. In true badass hockey player fashion, he drove himself to the hospital and still has a big lump on his shoulder to mark the moment that ended his hockey career.

What I never realized until I grew up and got a little distance from hockey is that it a game like no other. There is nothing casual about being a hockey player. There's no flag-football in hockey. There is no quick game of H-O-R-S-E. The minute you invest in a stick and skates, you are required to get serious about the sport. And while hockey players may get a bad rep as meatheads, it takes some real skill to play. So while I may grumble about having to endure yet another game in the never-ending playoffs to the Stanley Cup, I continue to marvel at the amazing spectacle that is ice hockey.