Michael and I were pedaling along the path and politely passing people whose pace was slower. I could see in the distance a group of three boys whose ages looked to be around eleven or twelve. They were on BMX bikes, recklessly zigzagging on and off the path, intentionally cutting off those trying to pass. As we approached, the area became congested with a mom and her children, also on bikes, including one with training wheels. The boys aggressively blocked our progress and created confusion, almost knocking over the girl and alarming everyone present.
I decided to try a controlled and assertive approach and, barreling up behind one of the boys, barked out, "Okay, which side do you want me to pass on, the left or the right?" Lacking a response, I bolted forward to his right and then faced his friend riding ten feet in front of me.
This kid was bigger and I realized I needed to clearly demonstrate that I was not intimidated. As a word of warning, I yelled, "Move over or I'll take you down!" and he dodged left as I shot past him.
Michael caught up with me a minute later, having carefully navigated around the family and through the gauntlet. Aware of recent youth violence in the city, he believed they were bullies at a minimum and seriously dangerous at most.
Learning moment
A mile or so later, Michael and I reached the halfway point on our ride and, turning around, headed back down the path. Knowing we'd see the boys again, I began to formulate a plan. I quietly sensed that I could perhaps help these boys and slowed down as Michael disappeared around a curve. When the boys approached, I called out to them, "Hey, I want to talk to you," making eye contact with one boy in particular. He stopped. Looking around at the others, I said, "Yeah, all three of you."
I got their names, introduced myself, and we started chatting. In a friendly style, I asked if they knew much about biking etiquette, explained how a bike path operates like a road, with passing on the left, and made a request, "Do you think you could practice doing this the rest of the time you're out here today?"
One of them said, "I thought you was going to tell us we couldn't be out here no more."
I replied, "Heck no, I think it's great you're out biking. I don't want to stop you. Just be more respectful."
My boyfriend came coasting up and with a big smile on my face, I introduced him to all three boys. We kept talking a while, with one boy asking Michael how his clipless pedals worked and some discussion of our training for the bike ride across Iowa. As we finally parted and rode off, Michael looked at me and remarked, "What a great thing you just did. Those boys were so different than I expected. Do you think they were just unaware of the danger they were causing?"
Here's the kicker: I don't know the answer to that question. And truthfully, my knowing their intent doesn't really matter. We had a common need to use the bike path that day in a way that worked for everyone. Rather than scare away families and athletes, why not give these boys the opportunity to become more informed? They learned they have a choice in how they behave and I already knew about my choices as an adult authority and a coach.
We spend a lot of energy judging people and rationalizing how they're wrong and we're right. If we keep these judgments alive, actively repeating them in our heads, they become our truths. Perhaps people just act like jerks because they're having a bad day or year. Perhaps someone in their life never forgave them, or they didn't get a chance to sleep, or they're terribly lonely and trying to face the world the best they know how.
The next time you find yourself judging or labeling someone, stop. Stop and ask yourself how you can look at the person as someone who has potential. We all do. And we're all in this together.
