On Bikes

I can clearly remember my first bicycle: a small red tricycle with white handlebars. At a young age, I’d ride it up and down my driveway in circles, stopping once I got too close to the main street (crossing the road without a parent was far from okay in my household.) I’d sing Disney songs and pretend I was flying. I grew out of it fast, wanting to ride further, longer with the older kids on the block. Around the age of six my parents bought me my first real bicycle, white with purple streamers dangling off the handlebars like a cheer leader’s pom poms. I rode that bike everywhere I could once crossing the street was legal. Up and down my short block I’d go, pretending I was on daring adventures, escaping from the evil warlord and rushing home to save the teddy bears. Since my adventures took me far, my parents put beads on the spokes of the wheels; clack clack clacking along the way, they could always hear me.

I quickly grew out of that bike and received a dark purple Roadmaster for my birthday. Around that age I was able to leave the block and venture forth to unknown territory. Exploring the neighboring streets, my bike would take me to friends’ houses, nearby lakes, and my old elementary school. Circling the metal and wood playgrounds, I’d remember the times we’d hang upside down during recess and try to throw one another off the monkey bars.

As I grew older, the bike did as well, but it never showed it. It never once rusted nor made any fuss over the fact that I started to favor rollerblades. Instead, it waited for me patiently in the garage, knowing that one day I’d love it again.

My first year in college came and I brought the bike with me, knowing that my dorm was a bit far from my classes. Riding it up the small mountains of Tallahassee proved to be harder than I imagined. After a year, the bike was forgotten once again and exchanged for long walks with friends. One night, under the moonlight and pale lampposts, my poor bike was stolen from the rack outside my dorm.

Years later I yearned for a bike. I wanted to be that person who rode it to buy groceries, or took it to work rather than using a car.

Christmas morning I woke up early and found my parents already in the living room, playing with Jetta. Since the Christmas tree was right there in plain sight, it was hard not to notice the giant structure covered loosely with bags. Before Justin was even awake, I knew what I got for Christmas.

The blue Schwinn bike was all I could ever want. With its black wire front basket and comfortable seat I was in love. Incidentally, my dad got a bike as well and we took quite a few trips around the block. Early in the morning, we’d hop on and bike through the back paths in our neighborhood. Up and down the little hills, we’d pass the tennis courts, baseball fields and feel the crisp morning air.

I’ve been using the bike every day since, whether it’s riding it up the block to check our mail or going down the street to Target to get shampoo. I ride it because it’s exciting, because it reminds me of what it was like to be a kid.

Yesterday after my first day at work I got home and hopped on. It was getting dark, the sky was a deep purple shade the reminded me of a once forgotten friend. As I rode past the mall, a plane flew high overhead. Sure, the passengers were getting to their destination faster, but it wasn’t nearly as fun.