F-ck Cars: Finding Freedom from Brain Cancer on Two Wheels
If you're new here, welcome to The Liz Army, where I chronicle my experience of living with a malignant brain tumor (aka brain cancer), raw and unfiltered. In this post, I explore how a bike, of all things, has become my lifeline to freedom after losing the ability to drive.
My first bike ride to the gym in July 2024.
Content Warning: This post contains strong language and profanity. Please be advised if you're sensitive to such content.
It’s been 10 months since I’ve driven a car assisted by my feet. In that time, I’ve had only three sessions with hand controls. I was high on hope after the first lesson, but logistics quickly brought me back down. The only adaptive driving instructor within 100 miles is in high demand. I’m lucky to get in once every eight weeks, and that’s with me being a pain in the ass, begging to be squeezed into their schedule.
After my second lesson, my instructor dropped a bomb: “You might not be a driver.” My right hand and arm, it turns out, are just as unreliable as my right leg and foot. Typing and texting have been a challenge over the last two year years, but I’ve adapted—spellcheck and voice-to-text are lifesavers. But driving? There’s no spellcheck for driving.
When I vented to able-bodied friends, more than a few said, “You should just get a Tesla!” As if dropping $40,000 on a self-driving car that still requires human intervention is a solution. If I had a dollar for every time someone suggested a Tesla, I’d lose all my friends to a big, fat “FUCK YOU.”
My instructor eventually wrote a “prescription” for the adaptive equipment I need installed in my car. But even once it’s installed, I’ll be confined to driving within a five-mile radius on “familiar routes” only. An old friend was incredulous: “Wait—all this time, effort, and money just to drive within a five-mile radius? That’s fucked up.” I was incredulous too, at first. But the more I learned about the process, the less angry I became. Safety matters, and I want to be a safe driver. If I caused an accident, I’d never forgive myself.
From October to March, a friend drove me to the gym twice a week. But when her job situation changed, I was back to working out at home, alone and lonely. Then, in early July, something amazing happened—my trainer moved to a new gym just four miles from my house. I started riding my bike eight miles round trip, twice a week. Suddenly, I was back in the gym, and my world was expanding again.
Me at age 19, riding with The Spokes. Photo: Mike K.
The bike? It’s my middle finger to the five-mile cage of restrictions I'm forced to live with. It’s the feeling of breaking out, of reclaiming space that’s been taken from me. When I was 18, I was part of a bike gang called The Spokes. We rode through Sacramento, slapped “Fuck Cars” stickers on street signs, and reveled in our freedom. Now, every time I get on my bike, I feel that rebellious spirit flicker back to life.
Sure, a car can haul groceries within a five-mile radius, and I’ll appreciate it when the days get shorter and colder. But for now, it’s summer. I’m alive, my feet still pedal, and the wind on my face? It’s my anthem of survival. Fuck cars.
