After my third accident, I decided throttles are my nemesis. First time was on my scooter, second and third times on my e-bike. Originally, my Marin Fairfax bike was not electric–just human powered. Last year, I had a Bafang motor installed to make commuting easier. But I didn’t expect to get a throttle with the install—it just “came with,” and I didn’t question it. After riding the bike for a while and experimenting with the throttle, I thought, this is too much and I don’t really need it. Five levels of assist are more than enough. Nonetheless, I started to depend on the throttle. It was like touching a magic wand to create delicious bursts of power that eased me into motion after a stop, pulled me up the steep hills, glided me along without pedalling.

On the day of the Pride Parade, I set out early for Douglas Street to capture a good spot to watch. Riding up and over the bridge, I slowed down to observe a great cloud of bright balloons approaching from the other side. After a few moments, I pressed my throttle to get a move on. What happened next was so fast and unexpected, I hardly know how to describe it. I hadn’t noticed that one of my handlebars had gotten tucked under a bridge railing. When I throttled, the bike jumped with a life of its own, and the seat swivelled, hitting me hard in the upper thigh. Suddenly, I was on the ground, the bike on top of me, with blood flowing from cuts on my hands. My thigh pulsed with pain. A couple stopped to help me up and righted my bike. Somehow, I got to the parade and watched for a while, but then realized I was in shock. Nothing an extra hot latté at Habit Coffee couldn’t cure. 

But seriously, the eggplant and banana bruise on my thigh was ugly and tender, and I limped for a few days. It took some time for the bruises to go away, the cuts to heal, and for my thinking to coalesce around throttles and what they mean. 

In 2012, I bought a 50 cc scooter. So cute and fun! I loved it. But again, the throttle. I was on my way home from work in backed up traffic, daydreaming. Suddenly, I realized the car ahead of me had started moving a few moments before, and to catch up, I hit the throttle. But my wheel was turned, and the machine jumped. I was thrown to the ground, the scooter on top of me. I stopped traffic that day, ended up at the hospital, and received a sling and advice to keep my fractured arm quiet for several weeks. Shaken by the accident, I sold my scooter soon after that.

Then there was the other e-bike incident when I throttled my bike on a gravel path. Big mistake. Again, I ended up flat out on the ground, bruised and shaky, with the bike on top of me. 

Throttle is a noun signifying the device controlling the flow of power to an engine. Also, it’s a verb: you throttle the throttle or (second meaning) you choke or strangle somebody. I started to think of how I might be using the throttle too much on my bike and in my life. I throttle to get the extra boost I think I need. Usually, I throttle without thinking, and then I run into trouble. But if I were to insert a pause, I might realize I don’t need the throttle. Throttling chokes my life. Increasingly, to throttle (act precipitously, riding a burst of power) leads me into discordant situations that I regret getting into. Doing the unnecessary thing, saying the wrong words.

Perhaps I’d be better off if my e-bike didn’t have a throttle at all. But still, I’d be throttling my life. I reflected on ways to stop doing this. Perhaps one of these will resonate with you: 

• Don’t respond immediately to email or texts. Stop and think. What’s my responsibility here? Is what I am writing useful, timely, kind, necessary?
• Don’t jump from one activity to another. You might like to pause for a moment and ask, “How do I feel now? What do I need?”
• Stop manufacturing energy you don’t have. Don’t do that “one extra thing.” Just don’t.
• Doing stuff is overrated. What about doing nothing? There is plummy goodness in sitting and observing life, engaging all senses.
• And related to the last point, think about Rick Hanson’s “Taking in the Good” program in Hardwiring Happiness. (I recommend this book!) HEAL is an acronym for four steps: Have a positive experience. Enrich it by exploring all its crevices and beauties. Absorb it fully into your body and mind. Link it with negative experiences so when they arise, you rewire your negatives with positives.

This afternoon, I sat in the sun reading a wonderful book I got out of the library, Country of the Blind: A Memoir at the End of Sight, by Andrew Leland. He writes with candour about his experience of slowly going blind from Retinitus Pigmentosa. I am learning so much about blindness and disability in general. Marvin, our dog, lay near me on the browning grass, contentedly chewing a stick. I sipped from a glass of sparkling water, a lemon sliver among the bubbles. Leland’s prose struck me as honest and evocative; I absorbed his words with delight, laughing occasionally at the stories he told about his two-week experience at the Colorado Center for the Blind. The sun felt restorative. Sounds of the neighbourhood on a summer weekday floated over the yard. The occasional yelp from a dog, somebody’s car radio—the cheesy song “In the Summertime” by Mungo Jerry coming in and out of aural focus—the guy who lives behind us directing somebody in a high, bossy voice about how to find something. “It’s in the back of the cupboard—you really have to search for it.” I could smell the mint and basil in the garden box at my elbow, filling my head with spicy green. My whole body flushed with well-being and pleasure. Throttle down.