If you would have told me, soon after I arrived in Beijing, that I’d ride a bike through the streets of China’s capital during rush-hour, I would’ve asked you what you were drinking.

Not that I’m green or timid. At 52, I’ve visited more than 30 countries and lived abroad twice before—a semester in Sweden and a year in the Netherlands just after getting married. I’ve run 10 marathons, climbed 14,000-foot peaks, and have been biking off-and-on for decades. And since moving to Beijing a few months earlier, I’ve hiked the Great Wall a number of times and spent many days exploring the city.

But today I was after more than convenient transport. Like eating with chopsticks, riding a bike is a foundational part of life for hundreds of millions of Chinese. I wanted to join them, understand them. MoBike, Beijing’s bikeshare system, had launched years before and quickly gained a strong reputation. The bikes were ubiquitous, reliable, and usually faster than a car or the subway.

But I was still terrified.

In a city where cars rarely yield and traffic signals wield the authority of Christmas lights, moving about on two wheels sounded like tiptoeing through the lions’ den. Guidebooks warn would-be bikers about the heavily polluted air, cars commandeering bike lanes, and drivers’ total disregard for the rules of the road.

My expat friends were split: some embraced the thrill, as much as they loved to eat fiery hot pot; others relied on private drivers to get around. The first camp sounded much more my style. Either way, they say fear releases the same endorphins as exercise and chocolate, so I pushed the dark thoughts aside, drank my coffee, and headed out to find the nearest bike.

MoBike has no docking stations or bike stands. Users just park the bright orange two-wheelers wherever, including on the sidewalk outside my apartment. A simple app scan unlocks the bike and locks it again at the destination. The sturdy, functional MoBikes are not the Ferraris of the cycling world: at over 30 pounds, they’re more like Ram trucks.

But with rides costing about a quarter, they appeal to school kids and grannies alike, with thousands available near subway stations, malls, schools, offices, and beyond. For my maiden voyage, I decided to visit a friend about four miles away, or 35 minutes by subway. Biking should cut the time in half, as long as it takes to slurp down a tasty bowl of street noodles.

Finding some parked bikes I pressed the tires, squeezed the brakes and tested the bell—a potentially crucial safety feature since I’d yet to learn “on your left!” in Mandarin.

Making my selection, I plopped my oversized purse into the basket, clambered aboard, and pushed off into the whir of midday Beijing. Feeling the weight of the bike, I wobbled with hesitant steering into the bike lane like a five-year-old freshly freed from training wheels.

The bike lane was littered with the bumpers of poorly parked cars and abandoned bikes and bordered by fast-moving traffic on the left. To the right, the sidewalk heaved with pedestrians, more discarded bikes and aggressive scooter drivers. Every 50 meters or so I had to swerve to dodge an obstacle, often perilously close to disaster.

But I pressed on, and after a few minutes found a rhythm and started to gain confidence. That’s when I looked up to see a delivery scooter zooming at me head-on. He was going the wrong way in the bike lane, but didn’t seem to care.

Do I pull over? Will he? Should I scream at him?? My heart raced as he sped toward me—30 meters, 18, now 5! I did all I could to squeeze myself and my bike into the tiniest sliver of bike lane, allowing him to narrowly pass, his rearview mirror brushing my shirt.

The next time it happened I took it in stride. Almost. Finally, I reached Guanghua Road, where a canopy of trees lined the embassy district. I’d braved the initial gauntlet to reach relative safety, and after a few blocks, I felt giddy, discovering a skill I never knew I had.

But I had a long ways to go. Passing the Temple of the Sun Park, my bike started making a “click-clack” sound that gave me pause. Is my beast on its last legs? Should I just press on? With bumper-to-bumper traffic on my left and two-wheelers whizzing past on my right, I couldn’t pull over, so I tucked in behind a pony-tailed lady on a scooter, seeking safety in the middle of the pack.

At the traffic light, I glanced over the shoulder of my protector and found a stunning sight. A fuzzy-haired bundle of a baby was fast asleep on the woman’s knees, nestled against a pillow held in place by his mom’s legs. I could barely get my head around it.

Here I am, nearly crippled with anxiety at the thought of two-wheeling in Beijing, and this local mother is zipping around town holding a life in her lap, seemingly without a care in the world. I stopped feeling guilty about not wearing a helmet and started to let go of the fear.

The light turned green, and I pedaled off. The strange noise from my bike and the screaming in my head had stopped. Passing the U.S. Embassy I nodded at the guards, as if this were something I did every day. I turned right on Jianguomen and grinned when I saw my favorite breakfast pancake cart.

Heading west into the 600-year-old Forbidden City, I felt I was riding into my future even as I pedaled back in time. But I still had one final hurdle to overcome.

The great thing about Chinese shared bikes is you can ditch them anywhere. So, when I reached a steep overpass, instead of pushing my unwieldy steed over the ramp, I finished my ride, walked across and unlocked a new bike on the other side.

But in my joy of making progress, I neglected to do my due diligence inspection of this new ride. Within a few blocks I spied the Chinese characters of my friend’s apartment building, welcoming me like the Statue of Liberty. Nearing her block, I squeezed the brakes but nothing changed. Like a large mass of water moving forward at speed, the bike continued on its merry way.

With no runaway ramp in sight, I coasted a full block past my destination before the bike finally slowed enough for me to dismount. My legs were shaking, but I felt triumphant relief as I set up the kickstand and locked the bike.

A few weeks later, my Mandarin teacher invited me to dinner. “Should we go by bike or taxi?” she asked. “I can ride,” I assured her, and we headed off together, joining the sea of cyclists weaving through evening traffic. ■

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Orlando-based Kirsten Harrington is a freelance food and travel writer. When she’s not working you’ll find her scoping out new adventures, hiking or enjoying a meal with family. Learn more here.

Kirsten Harrington