I've been working the past few couple months on re-learning how to ride a bike.
No, I didn't forget. But my foot can't do it the way I used to, because some of the nerves don't work and the muscles haven't worked in so long that they don't remember how to do their jobs. I have to remind my muscles how things work around here and since they're hands-on learners, the only way to do that is to repeat the motion over and over, until it's ingrained. Furthermore, I lost a lot of nerve function, so we're working with a limited staff, here. So I had to restructure the work load and I have to learn a whole new way to manage my movements. Sending the message from my brain, which is what most people do, doesn't work, so the information has to be delivered straight to the source, through manual labor.
This involves wearing what can only be described as a children's life vest, a dorky helmet, and shoes that look like flippers. I don't know if I'm learning to ride a bike or going deep sea diving. I am then situated on the bike and my chest and feet are strapped in. There is no escape. Then, two Physical Torturists help me push the pedals. Which means they basically grab me by the ankles and do it for me.
Now, I love pie. A lot. No, really. It's the love of my life. As luck would have it, my bike riding has been a big ole pie, and I've been eating piece after piece... only it hasn't been the kind that I dream about. It's been gargantuan pieces of humble pie. And it's been hard to swallow.
It's hard work. Really hard work. And I sweat, and curse, and cry. But I'm doing it. And I will keep doing it. Because it's worth it. It better be. And if it isn't, I'll be throwing eggs at every bicyclist I see...