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As I skidded into adulthood, the world told me I had to love a certain way, so that’s what I did: I loved a man. My bicycle was always there to help distract me from my thoughts—and from the denial that was crippling me. 

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When I was on my bike, I could set my mind to concentrate only on shifting gears, or the wind muffling my ears. If I ever lived “in the moment,” it was when I was on my bicycle. I enjoyed climbing the biggest hills and mountains; the pain made my lies hurt less. At the same time I often thought, “If I can make it up this hill, then who knows what I could do on the downhill.” Maybe tell the truth my heart was hiding.   

It took many miles for me to learn that I was allowing the world around me to make it complicated.

My hour-long escapes grew longer. I started putting myself through dozens of 64-mile rides, then hundreds. Those rides took an average of four to eight hours to complete and, over the miles, I released all my pent up anger before going back home.

But my anger wasn’t enough to keep me completely in the closet. I fell in love with a woman and had an affair. Then, I forced the door closed again.

I was frustrated with myself because I wanted to be free to love whomever. It took many miles for me to learn that I was allowing the world around me to make it complicated—that I was letting fear overrule truth. I climbed mountain after mountain, around sharp switchbacks, through love and secrecy—and finally, divorce and loss—breaking very little on the downhills. My delusional thoughts kept telling me I could pedal faster than the turmoil playing out within me. 

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I was divorced and 41 when I finally decided I had to start trying to remove the veil. I picked a kind, understanding friend to reveal myself to first, and he became my biggest cheerleader, pushing me to live life on my terms. 

Then, my bicycle helped me heal in another way. I used it to deal with the aftermath of telling loved ones who had a difficult time accepting the “new” Carrie. I intentionally chose rides with the most elevation gain so I could imagine stomping away the hurt as I stood to push my pedals up the climbs. When I crested the top of each mountain, a sense of relief took over. On the downhill, I imagined life the way I wanted it to be: spending it in love with a woman. It was a long, hard road—close to 10 years—and full of bumps and switchbacks, until I slowly pushed open the door on my solitude.   

It only mattered that I understood love for the real beauty it was—others would either come along or abandon ship. I was not a bad person because I was gay. If anything, I was wrong for lying to myself and to those around me. So I rose to the challenge and did what had to be done: I embraced my truth. 

At first it was extremely difficult, but once it was out, love set me free. It felt like being back on my pink banana-seat Schwinn with no worries in the world. Just happiness and freedom.

Carrie Highley is the author of the memoir Blue Apple Switchback (available  June 7, 2016), a story of coming out in the south.