Why I Don't Roll Down Hills Anymore
The time Ryan and I almost lost our minds searching for my broken glasses in a giant field
It was a bright, sunny day in 2019 when my new boyfriend (!!) and I decided to go for a bike ride. I was excited to show Ryan the Glacial Drumlin Trail, a scenic bike path that I frequently found myself visiting to escape my cramped apartment in Waukesha.
We left in the late afternoon, the August sun beating down on our backs. My plan wasn’t to take us on a marathon bike ride that day, but rather to show Ryan a cool stop-off point a few miles from the trailhead.
Once you leave downtown Waukesha, the Glacial Drumlin Trail weaves through forest and neighborhoods and eventually opens up into a glorious expanse of fields and farmland. The path is framed by short, blooming shrubs and trees that buzz with insects in the late summer. On a bike, the landscape gently rolls by and the wind fills your ears. You start to notice a distinct lack of people and road noise.
Generally, there’s nowhere to get off the trail unless you’re passing through a town. But there was one time, cycling alone, that I spotted a sloping, grassy hill off to my right with no “private property” signs, fences, or other deterrents that might keep me from walking through it. So I got off my bike and sat down in the grass, admiring the way the land sprawled for miles and kissed the horizon.
This unofficial rest area was where I wanted to bring Ryan the day we went cycling together. We were still in those early weeks of dating where we wanted to show each other everything about our separate lives. The hill was somewhere I felt peaceful and could go to appreciate the beauty of the Wisconsin countryside. It was the perfect place for a casual date.
Little did I realize that our excursion that day would end up being incredibly stressful and frustrating, all due to my own clumsiness.
After Ryan and I found the stop-off point, I had a brilliant idea. “Let’s roll down the hill!!” I said, feeling childish and whimsical.
We both rolled with abandon, but Ryan was smarter than me and took off his glasses first. When I stood up at the bottom of the hill, I realized my vision was blurry out of my left eye. One of my lenses had popped out. Uh-oh.
I had semi-rimmed glasses back then — the kind where the lens is held in its metal frame by a thin, transparent piece of string at the bottom. The string had loosened after years of wear and I’d already had a few occasions where the lens popped out, so I should’ve known this was a risk. The last place I thought I’d lose the lens was in the middle of a field, though.
If searching for a small shard of transparent glass on a homogenous, grassy plain sounds like a form of torture, it is. It’s a unique form of torture though.
Ryan and I started out positive. “It’s okay! Let’s just re-trace our steps!” we said, trying to keep the mood up.
I crawled on all fours up the hill, squinting out of my one good eye and running my fingers through the grass in case I’d have more luck feeling for it rather than seeing it. Nothing. Then, we scanned the perimeter of the hill, in case the lens flew off somewhere while we were rolling. Nothing. We checked out clothes and shoes just in case the lens stuck to something we were wearing. Nothing.
After a full 45 minutes of searching, we started to feel like we were losing our minds. The sun was setting, too, and with the trail being completely unlit at night, there was no chance we’d stay after sundown. Sweaty and tired, somehow we stayed patient with each other, even though the stress of the aimless search was starting to bury us into a shallow pit of despair.
Ryan and I agreed to do one more full sweep of the hill — starting at the bottom and slowly making our way down and up in parallel rows — and then call it quits. If we couldn’t find the lens after that, we weren’t going to find it. I figured I could survive with one working eye if it meant getting safely back home instead of being stranded in the dark.
It was monotonous, this slow and fruitless search through the grass. We were literally crying out for St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, to revel the lens to us. (Neither Ryan nor I are particularly religious, but we were both raised Catholic and both happened to choose St. Anthony as our confirmation saint, which I find to be a particularly funny coincidence.)
Around this time, my mom called. I had no reason not to answer, and I was thoroughly bored, so I picked up. We told her about the missing lens as we kept going up and down, up and down, up and down the hill.
After a full hour of searching, just as we were about to give up, I moved my backpack ever-so-slightly and saw a glint in the grass. It was the lens!! I’m pretty sure I screamed.
It was intact — no scratches or dents — and I managed to pop it back into my glasses frame. I remember the euphoric rush of relief and the giant bear hug that I pulled Ryan into as we celebrated an accomplishment that felt impossible only a few minutes prior.
Even though the universe threw us that challenge only a few weeks into our relationship, we handled it as well as I think any new couple would. Ryan didn’t harp on me for making the (frankly stupid) decision to roll down the hill with my glasses on, even though he could’ve. He just stuck by my side and searched as diligently as I did with my one good eye. I was impressed by his patience then and sometimes I am still pleasantly surprised by it now when I make dumb decisions and saddle us both with the consequences.
He didn’t have to wait with me in the field at all that day. Ryan could’ve said sayonara and left me to my own devices. But he chose to stay stuck in that field with me, for better or worse, until the sun set or we found the lens. I’m glad it was the latter, but I would’ve been grateful for his companionship if it happened the other way, too.
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