As a child, I never learned how to ride a bike. It wasn’t my parents’ fault—they tried. I have snap-shot memories of my father lightly holding onto the handlebars of my white-and-pink bike, jogging alongside my crooked path until I was, to my surprise, riding all by myself. At 7 years old, I was well on my way to full two-wheeler independence when, at an extremely low speed, I collided with the side of a parked minivan. My hands stung, but that was nothing compared to the embarrassment I felt: Not only did I run into a parked car, there was a family taking out groceries on the other side of the sliding door. The mix of pain and humiliation was too much. So I decided to wait a decade, and just learn how to drive instead.
Truthfully, I was comfortable with my lame-but-amusing bike fail. There was nothing about my life that appeared to be diminished by not knowing how to ride: Living in New York City, I could get anywhere I wanted by subway, taxi, or on foot. Except for the off chance of going for a Citi Bike ride with Leo, I didn’t really think I was missing much. This fall, however, my boyfriend Bryan and I had planned a trip to Copenhagen. And after reading that the city was really best seen by bike, suddenly, I couldn’t shake the image of us pedaling among a sea of happy and well-dressed Danes. So I decided, at 28, to challenge my childhood fear and learn, once and for all, how to ride a bike.
After Googling for adult lessons, I discovered Andree Sanders, aka the Bike Whisperer. I was drawn in by her progressive teaching style called “the balance method”—the pedals are initially removed, teaching riders to balance on two wheels—which guarantees a “low-stress, crash-free” experience. Despite her cute moniker, Sanders takes her mission very seriously. “I hate when people say, ‘It’s as easy as riding a bike,’” she tells me before my very first lesson. “Riding a bike is not easy!”
One Friday this past summer, we met for our first lesson at the edge of Riverside Park. The Bike Whisperer was wearing silver bicycle-stud earrings and a bike-stamped gold pendant around her neck. In 2006, Sanders gave up a desk job in advertising to teach adults and children how to ride full-time. The vast majority of her clients are adults, and Sanders prefers it this way. “For kids, it’s usually the parents’ decision to learn,” she says. “But when you’re an adult, it’s your decision.” I asked if her other adult clients ever share personal stories about why it’s taken them so long to learn “Oh, yeah,” she said, shooting me a knowing glance through her wrap-around sunglasses. “It’s very psychological. The bike is just a way in.” The details are different, but the basic the story is always the same: “‘I was 5 years old, my dad took me out back.’” she said. “And all they can remember is the crash.” I felt for all my shaky comrades who, like me, never had the courage to dust themselves off and get back on the bike.
We made it to a flat stretch of asphalt near the West Side Highway. Here, she told me, was where I would learn how to ride a bike. The Bike Whisperer is like the platonic ideal of a high school gym teacher: supportive, meticulous, and equipped with an arsenal of motivational phrases. She probably said “two steps forward, one step back” a dozen times during the course of the lesson.
