I Don't Have a Going Problem

I learned how to ride a bike when I was about 7 years old. I followed my brother for miles and miles while our mother thought we were home watching cartoons. I spent long days pedaling around my hometown with one of my best childhood friends. I’ve ridden bikes as an adult—even with my children strapped into plastic seats perched above the back wheel. I’ve been comfortable on a bike most of my life.

Until now.

Now I have a fancy, expensive bike with weird little discs where pedals should be. It has Bluetooth shifting for the gears. This bicycle cost more than my first three cars—combined.

Naturally, I got all the right gear: the padded britches, the zip-up jersey with pockets on the back, the padded gloves, the aerodynamic helmet, the blinking LED lights, the phone holder so I can watch my mph and stats on an app… and the pretty shoes with little holes that lock into those funny-looking pedals to help me get more power from each push.

So why am I suddenly uncomfortable on a bike?

Because these pedal-thingies are all new to me, and I’m not used to having my feet locked onto the bike. When your first line of defense before falling is to put your foot down—and suddenly you can’t—well, that has me feeling some serious pain. Literally. A good bit of my DNA is now on the pavers of our driveway.

I was nervous when I got them, but still pretty cocky thinking, “I won’t fall—I’ll be very careful.”

Well. Let me assure you: it’s harder than it looks.

The very day I got the shoes, I practiced in the garage, clicking my shoes on and off the pedals. Then I took a very short ride down the street. When I got back to the driveway, I unclipped my right foot and rolled up to where my husband was waiting… and promptly fell over to the left—right into the flowerbed. Minor scrapes on my left knee. No tears. I laughed at myself, and my husband laughed with me.

The next day, I set out for a longer ride. I realized I had forgotten to turn on my headlight and taillight, so I carefully stopped (without falling!) and switched them on. But as I tried to clip in again to take off, I found myself on the ground—this time on my right side, in the driveway of a complete stranger. (No one seemed to notice my graceful descent to the pavement.) I got up quickly and noticed a trickle of blood rolling from a gaping wound on my right knee. Lovely.

Just then, another resident on her not-so-fancy bike rolled by and smiled.

“I’ll get the hang of these things eventually!” I called out, smiling back—trying to hide the embarrassment and the pain.

Despite the injury, I was determined. I got on that bicycle and rode 25.2 miles, all by myself. And I even managed to dismount without further incident.

The scabs were forming nicely within a couple of days, and honestly, I thought it was kind of cool to have a story to tell.

It reminded me of my 30th birthday, when we went to St. Pete Beach, Florida. I was learning to rollerblade, so we brought our skates along. We started off in the resort parking lot and then headed east, slowly and carefully. Suddenly the sidewalk came to a T—at a very busy highway. My husband leaned easily into the turn and kept going. I panicked and ended up on my backside.

The same thing happened when I tried skiing. I was great at going. I could go fast and straight. What I could NOT do was stop… or turn. As I rushed downhill and the treeline approached, I had no choice but to fall backwards—flat on my rear—to avoid certain death.

Fast-forward to today. My new bike arrived on the FedEx truck. After some frustration with tires and tubes, my husband got me ready to roll! I got on and tried to clip in my right shoe. I don’t know if it was because the shoes were brand new or what, but I struggled to clip in. Finally, I put my full weight on my right foot and heard the click—success!

Just in time for the momentum of all 155 pounds of me to carry me straight down to the pavers again. My freshly formed scab was now permanently adhered to the driveway. New blood flowed from the exact same spot on my right knee.

I won’t pretend I’m proud of the words that came out of my mouth.

It stung. But more than that—I was just so mad at myself. Why couldn’t I get the hang of this?

My husband helped me up from the ground. I sat on the tailgate of his truck and pouted. He removed my shoes and helmet, and picked up my bike. I sat there for a few minutes, holding back tears. Finally, I told him I was going inside to wash my knee… again.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, I gently wiped away the blood—and let the tears flow. I prayed. And I felt so defeated.

I don’t have a going problem. I have a stopping problem. And a starting problem

God gently reminded me that these are the same problems I have in life.

I struggle to start doing the things I know I should.

I struggle to stop doing the things I know I shouldn’t.

And I’ve skinned my knees more than once because of it.

Paul understood this same frustration:

“I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.”

— Romans 7:15

This verse hits home. Even when we know better, we’re still human—still learning, still falling, still bleeding sometimes. But grace meets us there, even perched on the side of the bathtub with skinned knees and a bruised spirit.

So I’ll keep practicing. With clip-in pedals… and with grace.

Because even when I fall—and I will fall again—God doesn’t leave me in the driveway, or the flowerbed, or sitting on the side of the bathtub in tears.

He helps me up, dusts me off, and gently says,

Let’s try again, child. I’m right here with you.

And maybe—just maybe—He wants to use these skinned knees for His glory.

Not in spite of them… but because of them.

🚲 

Have you ever felt frustrated with yourself for not being able to start something you know God is calling you to—or stop something He’s asking you to surrender?

What “skinned knees” in your life might God be inviting you to trust Him with… not just for healing, but for His glory?

Take a few minutes to journal about where you feel stuck or bruised right now. Then invite God into that space.

Lord, I’m tired of falling down.

I’m frustrated with the parts of me that can’t seem to get it right—even when I try so hard.

Thank You for not giving up on me. 

Thank You for lifting me up, again and again, with grace in Your hands and love in Your voice.

Use my skinned knees for Your glory.

Let the scraped places remind me that You are near—and that You’re never done writing my story.

Help me to start where You’re calling me to start,

And to stop where You’re gently asking me to let go.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen.