Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Category Archives: Bike


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Return to gravel.

It’s not to say that we took our wounds seriously, but my mother never purchased designer Band-Aids. There were no cartoon characters or Disney royalty. In fact, I’m pretty sure they weren’t even the Band-Aid brand.  Possibly Curad. Or simply flexible adhesive bandages. And often times, just a Kleenex (which was really only a facial tissue) and a piece of Scotch tape (most likely just tape). 

No matter what she used, she did accomplish the main goal, which was just to return us to the gravel road, be it on bike or foot, skinned knees and all, as quickly as possible. No time for worry, or to go over the latest spill. Nor was there time to take pride in the survival. Who hadn’t fallen on Van Dyke Road? Her goal, I see now, was to keep me at play. Sometimes I would look up from the tattered tissue barely hanging on, as if to ask, “Really?” She would answer, “You think Phyllis Norton can do better? Go get in line.” We would laugh. And for this I will be ever grateful. 

Injuries change from year to year. Some wounds go unseen. But the goal is to always keep pedaling. Keep walking. Keep living. Because it is where we were wounded that we will continue to find the joy. 

A country and a lifetime away, I race out the morning door with a bit of Van Dyke Road still on my shoes. 

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The summer I didn’t go to California.

Entering the second grade they began the year with an assignment — What did you do on your summer vacation? Now, to be honest, I wasn’t ashamed of my summer schedule. I loved it. I would get up early. Fill the the styrofoam covered thermos — the one that my brother made in shop class and discarded in the basement — with ice water, and off I ran into the sun. I ran even faster than the hand painted stripes on the school made thermos. Some laughed when I continued the report. Of how I ran through Hugo’s wheat field. Rode my banana seat bike through the cemetery. Climbed Big Ole’s foot. Spent my weekly quarter for vacuuming and cleaning the house mirrors on a frozen Milky Way bar from Rexall Drug. Softball games. The endless swim of Lake Latoka. I heard one girl whisper loudly behind a cupped hand to her neighbor, all the while keeping eye contact with me as I returned to my desk, “She didn’t even go on vacation.”

I held my smiling face through perched elbows as she spoke about her trip to California. It sounded nice, I thought, but what I was thinking of was how after 4pm, when my mom came home from work, she would vacation out of her pretty summer work dress into shorts and a t-shirt and we would get on our bikes. It was gravel on Van Dyke Road, but traffic was non existent and you could ride down the center of the road. We stretched out our arms and rode hand in hand as the dust kicked up behind us.

I’m still smiling. I’ve been to California and beyond. Well beyond. But my heart vacations daily, floating just above the gravel.

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Unlaced.

My first and only question to the clerk at Iverson’s shoes was, “Are they fast?” He assured me that they were, but encouraged me to race to the front window of the store. He neglected to time me, but still, these felt faster than last year’s pair. He put my old pair in the box. My mother paid. I wore my new bumper tennies home. Not certain if I was racing them, or they were racing me.

I don’t know what we did with the box, but I assume they didn’t come with directions. I was left to my own devices. I decided it was completely up to me, what these beautiful shoes could or couldn’t do. Testing if they could pedal faster, I took my banana seat bike from the garage and set out for Lake Latoka. It was hard to gauge on the gravel of Van Dyke Road, but when I hit the paved hill by Lord’s house, I began to really move! They were faster! On the long stretch toward the lake, my knees blurred into the blue of my new shoes. I had never gone so fast. Perhaps in my eagerness to give them a spin, I had neglected to tie the laces sufficiently. In a scramble of laces and chain and heel hitting the tiny spikes of the pedal, my right shoe flew off my foot into the air. For a brief second, my heart in my throat, my legs in the air, the pedals still spinning, my shoe beside my head, it felt — no, I was sure — I was flying! That’s the thing about magic, no one can ever prepare you.

Time moves faster than last year. I have the final pair of Van shoes my mother bought. I don’t know if she asked, but they turned out to be fast. They sit beside me now. Unlaced. Almost brand new. I was unprepared for this as well, but heart in my throat, I know she is flying.

I can’t be sure if I’m carrying the magic, or it’s carrying me, probably a little of both. The pedals keep turning — what a ride! My heart keeps believing — What a ride!

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Hop on.



I didn’t know about tides then. Didn’t know that trust itself, as easily as it came in, could be pulled away.

I saw the bikes, entering the lobby of the hotel in Long Beach, Mississippi. (Even as I’m typing the state, I can’t help but spell it aloud in the rhythm we learned at Washington Elementary.) They weren’t banana seat bikes, but my youthful heart beat as if it were my sixth birthday. Having learned the repeated lessons of adulthood since then,I timidly asked if the bikes were for rent. “No, you can just take them, enjoy them, and bring them back.” She said it so easily, smiling, not knowing the beauty of the gift — or maybe she did…

Dumping the suitcases into our room as fast I could, I raced back down to the lobby. “We’re going to take them out,” I exclaimed. She smiled.

With the first wisp of my hair, the Gulf coast became the road to Lake Latoka in the summer of my Alexandria youth. I was riding. Free. Balanced by the trust in everything. good. Because it was there that we could hop on and off of our bikes. Lean them on sides of buildings. Drop them in ditches. In vacant lots. Neighbor’s yards. And they would be there. Waiting. Ready for our return. And maybe this was the truest of freedoms. Even more than the wind in our hair, against our bare legs — this trust.

Time and circumstance has a way of pulling it back. But it can return. I have felt the tides. Even come to believe in them. Trust in their return. Trust in trust itself.

Sand sparkles the backs of my legs. And the depths of my heart. Reminding me that today is a day to hop on. I am free to believe. Balanced in love. Ever and still.

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…and so she would dance.

I suppose we all have different destinations. I used to walk down Hopkins Crossroad and take a left onto Minnetonka Blvd. The obvious attraction to many was the bright red roof of the Dairy Queen. But not for me.

It was no accident, I suppose, that there was usually a Dairy Queen next to the softball fields of my youth. In dusted and grass stained uniforms, with skinned knees and sweat matted hair, all the young girls gathered behind cones, and cups. Celebrated or commisserated with frozen cream. Intolerant, being a word well above my reading level, I just knew I would get sick. (After two very unsuccessful attempts.) Sometimes I opted for the Mister Misty – the DQ’s version of shaved ice – but mostly I just went without.

I could have felt sorry for myself. My mother didn’t allow that. “Look around,” she said, on her way back to work, “You have a banana seat bike and a beautiful summer day, figure it out…” So I rode. I rode that bike to lakes. To swingsets. To ballfields. And neighbors. The North End. Parks. On gravel and hills. In cemeteries. Empty school yards. To the public library. Ben Franklin. Hugo’s field. I saw everything. I pedaled the paths and when the paths got too thick, I dropped my bike and walked. And walked some more. As I wore the flowers from my banana seat, and the soles from my bumper tennis shoes, without my knowledge or permission, I was indeed figuring it out.

I still think of it as my superpower — seeing beyond the obvious red roof. During my Minnetonka stay, I saw it almost every day, the weeping willow just before the DQ. One autumn, after dancing with it for an entire summer, I came home and gave thanks on the canvas. For the willow. The road. My mother. The love of the dance.

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A new measure.

I spotted it on the gravel path. The sun reflected off the silver case. I picked up the tape measure. It had a few scratches, but worked perfectly.  The metal strip was strong. It stayed in place when I pushed down the lever. A good measure. I looked around the nearby driveways to see if a work truck was nearby. There was no one. We are always in need of a tape measure. We have a couple, but they never seem to be in the right place. Smiling, I hooked my find onto the waistband of my shorts and kept walking. It was a good day.

The things that make me care are forever changing. There was a time when I measured the success of the day by the odometer on my bicycle. Each turn of the pedal brought something new. Then by school grades. Every “A” neared the way out. Paychecks and car doors. Plane tickets and galleries. Fax machines and store orders. Credit cards and rent paid. Computers and social media. “Likes” and “friends.” Measure by measure.

There are a million ways, I suppose, to monitor your success. I would never presume to tell you how to do it. The only thing I know for sure is that it keeps changing. That is the gift, if you choose to see it. But you have to change along with it. Find a new measure. I tell myself this daily. Will this painting sell? It doesn’t matter — I had fun doing it. Will this post get a lot of likes? The message was just as much for me. Did I get anywhere today? I had the time to go for a walk. New measures.

I don’t know if some signs are easier to see, or if some days we just choose to see them. Either way, I needed this one. Returning home, I presented the tape measure to my husband. “Bravo!” he cheered. Love — perhaps the greatest measure of all.

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By name.

Left to my own devices each weekday of summer, I became quite adept at navigating this solo world of play. On the alternate days when I didn’t have a softball game, I figured out a way to play catch with myself. My mother bought a net that was strung between a metal square. If you threw the softball directly into the sweet spot it bounced directly back to you. I thought I was making a good decision when I placed the net in front of the garage. Because our driveway faced Van Dyke road, I didn’t want to throw the ball directly into what I loosely will call “traffic” (the random neighbor’s car).  Perhaps I overestimated my throwing accuracy. Hitting the target several times in a row, I gained the confidence to throw harder. I “wound up” and let the ball fly. Missing the target completely, the ball shattered the glass window of the garage door. 

I panicked. I looked around to see if anyone saw. There was no one there. Only my banana seat bike. It seemed to be the only answer. I dropped my glove and straddled the banana seat. Kicking the air. Trying desperately to keep up with the pedals as I raced down the hill toward the North End. The North End was the undeveloped land at the end of our neighborhood. Undeveloped by housing, but certainly overdeveloped in every school age kid’s mind that lived on this road. It was where every bad thing imagined or otherwise was sent to live. It was the threat of the unknown. The Bermuda Triangle of this small Minnesota town. Exactly the place where thieves or window breakers would go to hide.  I threw my bike into the side of the gravel pit and waited. 

It could have been hours, or a lifetime, I’m not sure how long. I imagined my story. It was robbers who did it. Certainly bad people who just wandered by while I was innocently playing. Or maybe it was one the Norton girls. Surely I could throw the blame at one of them. I kicked the dust with my bumper tennis shoes and thought and thought and thought. 

When I first heard my name called, I was sure it was the police. I held my breath. I heard it again. It became louder, but not angry. Almost sweet. Almost welcoming. I knew that voice. I got on my bike and rode towards it. My mother stood at the top of the hill. Every excuse fell from my heart and hands as I dropped my bike beside her on the gravel road. “I did it,” I said, hugging her nyloned work legs. “I know,” she said. We walked my bike back home.

Love will always call your name. Heart open, I walk the road. And listen.

Heart open, love called her name.
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Precious cargo.

The bike that I received for my birthday near the end of March had something even more spectacular than the flowered banana seat, it had a basket — a white wicker basket just below the handlebars. Each day that pre-spring (end of winter) I got off from the school bus, put my books in the basket, opened the garage door, and watched for any sign of gravel beneath the snow.

Near the end of April’s slush, I put on my mittens, my rain boots, and braved the scattered gravel patches of Van Dyke road. I returned home with a skunk like stripe of wet gravel from the back of my boots to the top of my neck, never happier. I retold the glorious tale of each turn of the pedal as my mother peeled off my layers. “You brought Big Suzy with you?” she asked. Big Suzy was my off brand “Raggedy Ann” doll, twice the size, (hence the “Big”), and not red, but bright yellow. “I would never ever leave her behind,” I said. And I didn’t. Even when the snow was gone, the ice melted, when my basket was filled with my a giant towel and flip flops, I put Big Suzy in the basket and rode off to Lake Latoka. Her smile never left her face, nor mine.

I suppose when one parent leaves, you’re always a little worried about the other. (The things we carry.) I thought I hid them, these fears, but she knew — my mother knew my every layer. Even when I outgrew the banana seat, the dolls…even when winter after winter she remained as faithful as spring, my heart’s basket held that tiny doubt that would pop up into my path, and when I carried it, when she saw it, she looked at me and smiled, “Suzy…” she said, and I was saved.

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Each song has wings.

I always knew I was fast on my bicycle, until Hardware Hank’s had a sale on speedometers. Before my brother secured it to the handle bars, I had my own way to gauge the speed. I sang. I knew two complete songs from Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark album, thanks to the constant play on my sister’s stereo. I knew how many verses it took to get past the gravel of VanDyke road to the smooth pavement. How many verses it took to get through the cemetery to the fairgrounds. I sang and sang. Past the tanks. Up to big Ole. Down Main Street. Each segment had a song. A lyric. A melody. I had created a soundtrack to the movie of my life.

The first ride that I watched the needle rise was rather amusing. I had a number now. Something real, I suppose. But then I stopped singing. And only watched the speedometer. My eyes darting from the road to the needle. Up and down. I began to miss it all. So focused on the number, I missed it all. The signs in Ben Franklin’s window. The girls laughing outside the Dairy Queen. The boys pushing outside Hardee’s. No music. Only a number.

I guess I learned pretty early on. It was always about the journey. And I didn’t want to miss it. I still don’t. It’s so easy to get caught up in the race of it all. Have to get here. Have to do this. Clock racing. Calendar flipping. And soon the music of it all disappears. Until I sing. Slow it all down and listen. Look around. Stepping. Riding. Living in the moment. In the movie of my heart.

Breathing heavy. Unsatisfied, I dropped my bike into our driveway. I found a screwdriver in the garage. Smiled with each turn. Dropped the barely used speedometer into the junk bin beside the car. And began to sing.

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At play.

I’m not sure we ever finished a game. There was softball. And kickball. And kick the can. And freeze tag. Regular Tag. One game morphed into the next in the empty field between our house and Dynda’s. With five girls, the Norton’s made it possible to do almost anything. If they showed up, teams were easily made. And that’s really all any of us had to do — just show up. Balls. Bats. Even bikes waited patiently in the grass, or the curb of the gravel road.

If we did keep some kind of score, it was forgotten. Erased by front stoop calls to dinner, or the dark of night. When I think back, it may be one of the greatest lessons I received in humanity. In love.

As we get older, we think we have to do something – and even worse – do the “right thing.” When someone is going through a difficult period, we struggle. “I don’t know what to say.” “I don’t know what to do.” We search for answers or solutions. But as with most things, we were given the tools from the start. We knew what to do. It turns out, it still holds true. All we have to do is show up. Be there for each other. Forgetting all the scores, remembering only to reach out an imperfect, sweaty, grass stained hand, and just be… together.

My lot is trampled. Sure. Worn even. For this I am blessed. My heart is at play. And I will never finish loving you.

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