CovidOnTheBlock_Mobile-01.png

Everyone has a story. That was the mantra as KUOW reporters set out to chronicle the lives of people who live and work on a small block in Seattle’s Beacon Hill neighborhood in the time of Covid-19.

Ariana Bray 2

“Yelling something, even if it's not what I want to yell, which would probably just be mostly profanity ... is helpful.”

— Ariana Bray

Ariana Bray stands for a portrait at the intersection of South Hinds Street and Alamo Place South on Monday, July 20, 2020, in the Beacon Hill neighborhood of Seattle.
Photo: KUOW/Megan Farmer

 

By Joshua McNichols 

Earlier in the pandemic, Ariana Bray would sit at the kitchen table in her apartment and look out at the world below. “I live alone, and so I haven’t seen anybody in a few months and it’s really lonely,” Bray said. “Sometimes I wake up in the morning and forget that it’s still pandemic time, and I’m like, ‘Oh, I’m going to see my friends. What am I going to do today?’ And then I realize my day is confined to these four walls.” 

Bray was a 27-year-old engineer for Google and now, because of Covid, she was working remotely in this small apartment without air conditioning. She makes good money, but she lives modestly because she’s helping pay her mother’s bills. 

Early this spring, she tried to lose herself in projects, “hoping that just those little bits of contact would be enough to like make me feel like I still have a purpose,” she said. 

She tutored a kid from the Congo. She did work on a website, to help people navigate the pandemic.  

“I just ended up getting really, really burned out,” she said. “I was pouring so much into all of these different things. And at the end of the day, when you hang up the last Google Hangout, you’re still by yourself. And you’re like, well, that didn’t help anything. I feel like I just gave a lot and didn’t necessarily get a lot in return.” 

The low point came unexpectedly one day.  

She tried video calling friends and family, but nobody was available to talk.Ariana 

“I was just like, ‘Wow, I’m really just alone.  Nobody here. Like, what if something happened, nobody would know.’” she recalled. “And I just got so lonely, and the stress from all these projects was just heaped on and heaped on and so I just like…” 

Something had to give. 

Bray decided to cry. On purpose.  

She set up everything, climbed into bed, and said: "Okay, it's cry time.” 

She cried for 4 hours.  

“At the end of it, I felt the same, in a way, but that was comforting because it was like it didn't change because I had all these emotions, I'm still the same person, I'm not any more weak than I was before,” she said. 

And then a shift. Three months into the pandemic, Bray left her apartment to protest police brutality on Capitol Hill. As a Black woman, she said the risks of COVID 19 exposure were outweighed by the risks of staying silent. 

Ariana Bray at the Seattle Black Lives Matter protests.  Photo: Ariana Bray

Ariana Bray at the Seattle Black Lives Matter protests.
Photo: Ariana Bray

She marched every day for weeks. She breathed tear gas. She was with people, surrounded by them. She described it as an outburst of emotion. 

“Yelling something, even if it's not what I want to yell, which would probably just be mostly profanity ... is helpful,” she said. “To feel things and do something with my body that felt like it was doing something that mattered, helped me when I came home, here by myself to hang out for two weeks.” 

Come summer, Bray found two things had changed.  

Where once she’d felt isolated, now she was overwhelmed with notes of concern from her white friends and colleagues offering emotional support.   

“Oh my God, texts and Instagram messages and like, at work, oh my God at work, everyone just Slacking me. You know, like, ‘I just wanted to let you know that like, I am here for you in these like, just wild times and that, like, you're so valuable,’ and I'm like, Girl, I know. I know.” 

She appreciated the notes, but they became exhausting to respond to, so she told them to just send her money by Venmo, which she used for takeout food.

The second change: Bray started thinking differently about her empty apartment. 

Once, it had felt oppressive. Now, it began to feel like a refuge. 

“Working on liking myself by myself is something I’ve been working on,” Bray said. “Before when I was thinking about the empty room in the sense of isolation, I was like, wow, this is super negative and there's nothing here. There's nothing of value.”  

Earlier that summer, Bray had ordered colored lights that she controls through her Google smart speaker. She can change the color so the lighting in the apartment matches her mood. 

Now, she said she thinks of her tiny apartment as a metaphor for herself. 

She no longer feels so confined by her isolation. 

“Before all this happened, I would sort of wait for people to notice if I were sad and then kind of confront my emotions, or I’d wait until somebody had the space for me to vent to them,” Bray said. “And I was like, wait a second, I don't need to. I could vent on my own. I have a mirror; I can talk in the mirror and have that same cathartic experience. And then I don't have to rely on somebody else to help me through that.” 

In the mirror, she’s found an honest conversation partner. 

Because, she said, friends will validate your emotions, but it’s harder to lie to yourself. 

 

Tippe and Drague 1

“I mean, our goal is maybe two months… to be out of here. We’ve been to Cleveland twice, checking out the houses there.”

- Robert McConaughy

Chef Celestino Nicolas works in the kitchen at the Tippe and Drague Alehouse on Friday, July 24, 2020.
Photo: KUOW/Megan Farmer

 

By Joshua McNichols

Inside a one-story building on Beacon Hill, built in 1926, is a bar where customers consider each other family. “It kind of makes me tear up, because Tippe and Drague is where our family comes to be part of an extended family on Beacon Hill,” one customer says.  

“Everyone arrives as they are with their own flaws. It’s like a forced family, in a good way,” says another. 

This makeshift family is weathering the pandemic together. But the familiar ground is shifting under them, in ways some of the regulars are only beginning to understand. 

On a hot night in July, some of their loyal customers hung out at tables on the back patio. They ate, masks off.  

They were far from each other, but that didn't stop them from carrying on a big, loud conversation. 

“This is Covid socializing! You’re shouting at each other across the room!” 

“Yeah, there’s no such thing as a side conversation.” 

“It’s like sitting at the bar! But we’re all far away!” 

Owners Robert McConaughy and Melissa Cabal opened this restaurant eight years ago.  

On this night, they flitted in and out, carrying plates of food and drinks. 

Customers shared stories about the cook (Brian) who loves to put funny messages on the sandwich toothpicks that say things like “not poisoned.” 

At one point, Cabal joined the patio conversation to tell a crazy story about a local raccoon that thinks it’s a dog. 

It all seemed joyous. I was there, too, taking it all in.  

And then I asked Cabal a question.  

What has been the low point, now that we’re about six months into this pandemic? Was it when they were closed, or when they were only doing takeout?  

“Actually, the low point is right now, I would say” Cabal said.  

“When we first started off, we had everybody file for unemployment, so everyone was covered,” she continued.  

“And then, Robert and I were working, and our customers were very supportive. Like these guys right over here, are in all the time, right? And we need those folks, and they have basically been the people keeping us alive.” 

Co-owner of the Tippe and Drague Alehouse, Melissa Cabal, works behind the bar. Photo: Megan Farmer

Co-owner of the Tippe and Drague Alehouse, Melissa Cabal, works behind the bar.
Photo: Megan Farmer

Customers gather outside of the Tippe and Drague Alehouse. Photo: Megan Farmer

Customers gather outside of the Tippe and Drague Alehouse.
Photo: Megan Farmer

A federal loan covered payroll and rent for a while, but now that’s gone. Trying to make this work has worn them down. Business is about 25 percent of what it used to be. 

Cabal said she considers it a good night if she brings in enough money to cover payroll. 

“And now people are really weary about coming out for food, and I think now, because of the increased number of Covid cases again, we’re like back at the beginning.” 

And customers, too, are making tough calculations as they decide whether to venture back into the restaurant scene. 

Dawud Jackson nurses mixed feelings about being here as he drinks his beer and eats his chips. 

“I’m here trying to support this business because I like it, so that they can survive,” he said.  

But at the same time, visiting restaurants – puts restaurant workers at greater risk of exposure. That weighs on him. 

“Yes, it feels safe for me to be out here in this relatively unpopulated patio, to have a beverage and help support them. And it feels good to do that. But also, it’s kind of like, I don’t know if that’s the right way to go about it.” 

The owners, Cabal and McConoughy, are life partners, as well as business partners. 

They have been thinking about where they’re at in life, now that they’re in their 50s. 

And what they want next. 

Sometimes at the end of a hard day’s work, McConoughy and Cabal sit back and compare what they’ve built – to where they are financially. “We’re barely pushing middle class, for how we work,” said McConoughy, “and you go to other places, and a bar owner, tavern owner, restaurant owner, is pretty firmly middle class. So it’s kind of frustrating that way.” 

So frustrating that they’ve decided to leave Seattle. 

“I mean, our goal is maybe – two months… to be out of here. We’ve been to Cleveland twice, checking out the houses there.” 

The Cleveland-Detroit area offers better living at an affordable price, McConaughy says. 

They had toyed with the idea for a year. But they didn’t act on it – until the pandemic gave them time to stop and think. Then, the decision came suddenly.  

"Literally, like a week before we said, ‘Should we move to Detroit?’ we were like, talking about building a deck on the front of our house to have a nice view of the sunset,” McConaughy said.  

They said forget the new deck and put their house on the market. 

This is what the pandemic is doing, to so many people. It’s given us a moment to reflect on our lives, and what we want.   

Cabal and McConoughy want to be closer to relatives. 

McConoughy wants to design board games for a living. Cabal wants more time off work to follow baseball teams around. 

Meanwhile, the regulars are still absorbing the news that the owners are leaving and selling the joint. 

Ali Leeds and Scott Adams overheard Robert tell me about it. 

They wondered what it would mean for them, and their weekly visits to this place. 

“We’ll have to see who the new owners are, or what happens to the place,” Leeds said.  

I told them the new owner would be the guy inside pouring drinks at the bar.  

Leeds was pleased. “Weiber? Oh, well, that’ll be cool.” 

Adams agreed. “Wow, that’s awesome for him. That really makes me happy. That’s great.” 

“Well, then I think we’ll keep coming here,” Leeds said. 

 

MF_COTB08.jpg

“With more social distancing and separation, how do you teach sharing? If you're sitting at a different table, if you're using different materials, it's a lot harder.” 

-Heidi Jensen

A student swings on a swingset after collecting flowers on a walk with teacher Margarita Arias. 
Photo: KUOW/Megan Farmer

 

By Esmy Jimenez 

Teacher Margarita Arias gathers the children around her. They grab onto a rainbow rope. It has loops for preschoolers to safely walk outside with a chaperone leading the way. But instead of 10 students, there are only five today -- each donning a tiny mask on their small faces. The children skip every other loop on the rope so that they are socially distant from each other.  

And then they walk around their block on a sunny afternoon, slowly and carefully observing the colors of flowers and cars parked nearby. 

This is the reopening scene at the Denise Louie Education Center in Beacon Hill.  

It’s an odd sight. Before each child enters the center, their temperature gets taken by staff. Then they wash their hands. But it’s more than that -- the sounds and feel of the school have changed. Down to the blue stickers on the playground outside that dot the floor and remind the children how far to stand apart. It’s a class where one child sits at each table and plays with their playdoh on their own, sitting quietly together but still deafeningly apart.  

Denise Louie closed on March 11. That’s the day Seattle Public Schools closed too. And it has since partially reopened in July. But for a place that once housed 95 students in a school day, it’s now down to 24. And likewise, their staff of 15 is down to nine adults on any given day.  

“A lot of our families didn't want to return immediately,” said Heidi Jensen, the school director.  

She said most of the families are from the neighborhood, many of them immigrants who speak Spanish or Vietnamese. And because many are low-income, Denise Louie is free for them. Some parents are essential workers, and they need the support. It’s a difficult choice, and one that’s proving controversial.  

Partially reopening any place, let alone a preschool is challenging in the time of viral disease.  

Students must wash their hands if they touch any surface, and teachers are constantly wiping down tables with disinfectant. They kindly remind the children to stand farther apart from each other when they start playing too closely.  

Jensen said it’s hard logistically but also emotionally and educationally for the children to live through all changes.  

Preschool is when children learn about their bodies and how to regulate feelings that can initially overwhelm them -- like the sensation of a face mask on a warm day that makes them feel flushed.  

The new normal also makes it harder to teach interpersonal skills like sharing.  

“Prior to the pandemic, we encouraged a lot of group work, because preschool is the age when children learn to share,” Jensen said. “With more social distancing and separation, how do you teach sharing? If you're sitting at a different table, if you're using different materials, it's a lot harder.” 

Students in the kindergarten readiness summer program play together.  Photo: Megan Farmer

Students in the kindergarten readiness summer program play together.
Photo: Megan Farmer

Notes from children at Denise Louie Education Center. Photo: Esmy Jimenez

Notes from children at Denise Louie Education Center.
Photo: Esmy Jimenez

Child at Denise Louie Education Center Photo: Esmy Jimenez

Child at Denise Louie Education Center
Photo: Esmy Jimenez

And while Zoom classes can be made to be more interactive, it also makes it harder to feel connected without the familiar presence of classmates or a favorite teacher.  

Erica Ortiz has been teaching online to Denise Louie students who have not returned in person. She has adapted but there’s one 4-year-old boy she keeps thinking of. He usually kept her busy in class with his gregarious personality.  

“He sent me one video and he said, ‘Oh teacher Erica, I love you. I miss you teacher.’ Oh my gosh it broke my heart because I want to give him a hug.”  

Instead Ortiz called her student back and left a sweet message for him. She also teaches the children to shape their hands in a heart and share that over their computer camera or to blow a kiss through their masks.  

Jensen said, the director, adds that as a preschool, Denise Louie is a place that connects the dots for many families. It offers groceries from Seattle Tilth, helps families who are experiencing homelessness, and generally looks out for their community.  

“It's not just school that they're losing,” she said. “But also, how is it affecting their mental health?” 

“How is it affecting families that may have lost their job and don't have any idea of when they might be going back to work or navigating all these programs and resources and making sure they're receiving that information in their home language?,” she said.  

“There's a lot to think about.” 

Back on the playground, there’s a boy on a swing with a teacher, another on a squeaky tricycle, and two little girls playing near each other. Squealing, they explain they are making chocolate ice cream, as they shovel sand into a bucket and mix it around.  

And while the coronavirus is still rippling through the Northwest, for a moment there is respite and even a quiet hope on the block.  

 

Aro Ha_0010.jpg

“It’s nervous-making to be operating a business in this way at this time. Honestly, we almost feel like we don’t have a choice.” 

-Shawn Mead

Co-owners of Petite Soif, Lauren Feldman, left, and Shawn Mead, right, are portrayed in the patio. 
Photo: KUOW/Megan Farmer

 

By Ruby de Luna 

When Gov. Jay Inslee issued a statewide lockdown in March, Petite Soif, a wine bar on Beacon Hill, had been open four months. “We were nervous about what was going to happen,” said co-owner Shawn Mead. 

Like many small businesses, the wine bar is struggling to survive. As a business that relies on people gathering, it has reinvented itself almost monthly since the pandemic started. 

Late March: Stay at home 7 

Co-owner Lauren Feldman spent a lot of time putting together their website, something she’s never done before. 

“I’m a cook, I’m not a technical person at all,” she said. 

With websites launched for Petite Soif and Vif, their first wine and coffee shop in Fremont, online sales took off. “People were buying wines like crazy – it was amazing!” 

They got creative with their specials. “We had a pack called ‘Stay at Home 7,’” said Mead. “We had seven bottles of wine, you know, times like these!” 

They also offered pantry and lunch items. 

Mead and Feldman met in 1999 at Campagne, where Mead was the wine director and Feldman was the pastry chef. Their first venture, Vif, a restaurant cum wine shop in Fremont, focuses on natural wines. 

Mead said over the years they’ve been offered opportunities to open a second place, but the spaces didn’t feel right. When they saw the Beacon Hill spot, they knew they wanted to be part of the neighborhood. They envisioned a European model, where people can stop by on their way home from work for a drink and light bite, or a place to pick up a bottle for dinner. 

Petite Soif was just establishing itself in the community when the pandemic hit. 

Co-owner of Petite Soif Shawn Meade arranges wine bottles on Thursday, July 16, 2020. Photo: Megan Farmer

Co-owner of Petite Soif Shawn Meade arranges wine bottles on Thursday, July 16, 2020.
Photo: Megan Farmer

Petite Soif wine bar.  Photo: Petite Soif

Petite Soif wine bar.
Photo: Petite Soif

Early April: Out walking 

The weather was warmer than usual, and people were out walking. Mead and Feldman moved the shelves of wine closer to the windows, to create what Mead calls a “wine window shopping experience.” 

“We have definitely seen a lot of people have been stuck at home taking walks in the neighborhood discovering us, realizing we’re here,” she said. 

Some have become customers. Mead says it’s helped keep their presence in the neighborhood. 

June 11: Wine window shopping 

When I visited Mead and Feldman in June, King County was in Phase 1.5 – out of lockdown, with indoor retail, restaurant and personal services allowed, albeit with restrictions. 

The shop was still set up for window shopping and curbside pick-up. In addition to wine and pantry items, the kitchen was open, and Anthony Dao made focaccia and other foods to go. 

“We’re paying attention to how people’s buying patterns are evolving and we’re evolving with that,” said Feldman. 

The county is poised for Phase 2, where restaurants can offer dining service, but at 50 capacity. But Feldman is not sure they’re ready to make that transition. 

“We are still really wary of what’s going to happen, I mean with all the news lately about spikes in other states because they opened up too soon, we’re being cautious,” she said. 

Plus the math wouldn’t pencil out. As much as they wanted to hire back their staff, they could have only four tables for service – not enough to stay open. 

The pandemic had been an emotional rollercoaster ride. Some days felt like things would be okay. But other times, Feldman and Mead wondered if they would lose everything, including their retirement. 

“That’s what we have to face every day as we move forward, like whether or not our business will weather this storm,” Mead said. “And we’re not alone in that.” 

Protests against police violence, then in its second week, didn’t appear to be waning, and the shop could feel the impact. Protesters took over six blocks near the East Precinct creating the zone known as Capitol Hill Occupied Protest (CHOP). Like many local businesses, the shop was closing the next day in support of the silent march organized by Black Lives Matter Seattle-King County. 

July 10: The patio dilemma 

A month later, I returned to Petite Soif. I noticed on their Instagram account that the  patio was open for seating. I wondered what changed their minds. Mead said business had plummeted as protests continued. 

“We got really nervous honestly about how we’re going to pay our bills and move forward,” she said. 

It was a hard decision and after discussions with their staff, they decided to offer outdoor only dining. 

They came up “service etiquette,” like requiring people to wear masks, rigorous cleaning, and serving food on compostable plates. 

Mead took me to the back courtyard where their husbands had dug out the middle and filled it with gravel. Two maple trees anchor the space. Native plants line the perimeter. 

There are four tables safely spaced, though in pre-Covid times, Mead said they would have added three more to squeeze more people in. But they’re trying to make the best with the current restrictions. 

So far, people have been enjoying the space. 

“People seem anxious to be out,” said Mead. She said they would have been fine sticking with online sales and wait a little longer before offering dining services again. 

“It’s nervous-making to be operating a business in this way at this time,” Mead said. “Honestly, we almost feel like we don’t have a choice.” 

 

MF_COTB19.jpg

“I’ve never been in a neighborhood where I’m going to live here for an extended period of time, or at least for a year and then we’ll reevaluate … Whereas I think this time I want to -- I have the intention to -- set down roots and be a part of where I am.”

-Kate Huntington

Kate Huntington stands for a portrait on Monday, July 20, 2020, along Beach Avenue South in Seattle. Huntington moved from Portland to Seattle on May 29th.
Photo: KUOW/Megan Farmer 

 

By Joshua McNichols 

One afternoon in May, two months into the coronavirus pandemic in Seattle, Kate Huntington carried boxes of books and clothing into a shiny new apartment building. One box has business-oriented books like “Getting To Yes.”  

Huntington has worked for Amazon since she graduated from college four years ago. She’s steadily climbed the ladder there. A promotion brought her to Seattle. 

“You’ve got to take the promotion; you’ve got to move,” Huntington said. “I’m super excited to be up here.” 

The pandemic complicated her move, though. She couldn’t see the apartment before she signed the lease. She worried: Would it be run down and dirty? 

She didn’t know until she unlocked the door to move in. 

“Honestly, like, it was a relief that it was clean and well maintained,” she said. “It didn’t have any funky odors or smells or like, you know how sometimes you walk into an apartment and it’s like, ooh, somebody’s lived here for a really long time?” 

This apartment was built two years ago at the heart of Seattle’s Beacon Hill neighborhood. It’s two to three stories taller than the other buildings on this block, with modern metal siding and a wine bar named Petite Soif on the ground floor.  

It exudes a more upscale vibe than the hundred-year-old buildings on either side. 

Kate Huntington pauses for a portrait as she moves into her new apartment in Seattle. Photo: Joshua McNichols

Kate Huntington pauses for a portrait as she moves into her new apartment in Seattle.
Photo: Joshua McNichols

Reverie Apartments, 2020. Photo: Google Maps

Reverie Apartments, 2020.
Photo: Google Maps

A couple months later, Huntington said the pandemic changed how she thinks about where she lives.  

For example, when she lived in Portland, she would shop on her commute home from Amazon, at places like Target, or Fred Meyer. And where she lived... it could be anywhere, as long as it was convenient. 

“I’ve lived in neighborhoods where I’m… I’m just here for the four walls, that’s really all I want,” she said. 

But now, like most of Amazon’s tech work force, she’s working from home. She walks her dog, which has her noticing the local businesses and trying to support them. 

“If there’s like a chain wine bar next to a local one, I’m probably gonna pick the local one,” she said. 

She’s been buying wine at Petite Soif. It’s convenient, but she says it’s more than that. 

“I’ve never been in a neighborhood where I’m going to live here for an extended period of time, or at least for a year and then we’ll reevaluate,” she said. “It’s always been, you know, place to place to place.” 

“Whereas I think this time I want to -- I have the intention to -- set down roots and be a part of where I am,” she said. 

That’s a new feeling for Huntington, one borne of a pandemic that has forced people to stay home and look around.   

 

De La Cruz Screenshot.PNG

“I think I’d really be depressed if I didn’t know this was temporary. It’s so easy to get depressed and stay depressed. And you’re not hurting anyone but yourself. Because, my goodness, then you’re inactive, you don’t do anything, people don’t hear from you. You just have to stay positive.” 

-Pearl De La Cruz

Pearl De La Cruz is portrayed on her Street Strider. 
Photo: KUOW/Joshua McNichols

 

By Joshua McNichols 

There’s a “Stay Healthy” street on Beacon Hill, in Seattle, behind the block we’ve been reporting on. Signs here tell cars to keep away. Pearl de La Cruz is out, riding on a surprising contraption that looks like a giant water bug crossed with a bicycle. 

 “I’m coming by!” she yelled out, laughing.  

“People will stop, they’ll yell ‘What is it?’” she said. “And I say ‘Street Strider!’” 

And as she bikes off, she’ll shout back, “Look it up!”  

De la Cruz was flying home from a business trip when she first saw the Street Strider. “I saw in the magazine and I thought ‘That's what I need!’” she said. 

It’s like a bike and elliptical machine in one.  

De la Cruz is a disabled veteran who has had both knees replaced, her ankles and feet operated on. She walks with a cane. A doctor destroyed her left foot, she said, which is now two sizes smaller than her right. 

“I just had major back surgery in October, where they went in and took out 13 screws and posts and put it in new ones,” she said. “I had 53 staples, and it's like my butt crack’s up to my shoulders now.” 

She’s built resilience from all these operations, which she said has helped her prepare her mind for the pandemic.  

After every surgery, de La Cruz forced herself to walk again.  

 “There was a time that I didn’t think I’d ever get up again. I was really down, I didn’t think I’d get out of that,” she said. “But I did, I’m no longer there. I know that I can get up.” 

This pandemic has thrown her a new challenge. She was furloughed from her job in the travel industry.  And a lot of her life is on hold. 

“This pandemic is scary. To me. I don’t feel comfortable, I’ve not gone into a stores, I haven’t gone into any hospital,” she said. “I didn’t even go to back to my last appointment with my neurosurgeon at Virginia Mason, because I didn’t feel comfortable going in.” 

She deferred surgery on an ankle and is wearing an ankle brace until the pandemic is over. 

Like all of us, she doesn’t know how this pandemic is going to end.  

Eventually, she believes we’ll find a vaccine. 

And she’s decided to trust that things will be okay. 

“Just knowing that there’s going to be an end to this,” she said. “I could see how someone could get lonely.”  

She continued: “I think I’d really be depressed if I didn’t know this was temporary. It’s so easy to get depressed and stay depressed. And you’re not hurting anyone but yourself. Because, my goodness, then you’re inactive, you don’t do anything, people don’t hear from you. You just have to stay positive.” 

Here’s how de La Cruz does it: She keeps a puzzle going on her table so that when she walks by, she works on it. She’s been catching up on movies and shows she never had time to watch before. She calls friends, even if the only news to share is that she got out of bed today. And when the sun comes out, she climbs on her Street Strider. 

“I try to ride it as often as I can. I’m supposed to not ride it, like a long distance or anything, because… they told me I overuse my body. But I don’t get that, how do you overuse your body?” 

It looks like hard work, when de La Cruz pushes her Street Strider up a hill.  

But that’s kind of the point.  

Because so long as she’s in motion, and the pain isn’t unbearable, she can weather anything.