To school, from school, to my friend’s houses. There weren’t many hills in my neighborhood, but there was one in between my school and my house.
After ballet practice on thursdays I would put on my helmet, hitch up my backpack, and adjust the streamers on my pink bike. Then, with no teachers in sight, I would petal slowly towards the top of the hill and…
Fly.
It was the highlight of my trip home, that’s for sure. My braids would whip around my face, backpack bounce on my back, tires expertly aim towards the middle of the bridge, the brakes useless. Magical, to a third grader.
I rode it during crisp fall mornings, and in sweet scented spring air. During frosty winter days, too. There was no stopping me.
In my fantasies my bike was a horse, an untamed stallion, fresh from the wild. i was a hero. I rode faster than any car could.
Sometimes I daydreamed that i had wings. any second now, any second, I would simply lift off the street. I would have a grand adventure. I would fly over the house tops, meet some other kids who could fly like me, and return home in time for dinner.
My imagination was as big as the sky.
But my bike started collecting dust in the back of our garage for years, after I hit middle school. Honestly, it was forgotten.
This summer my family has taken to riding bikes after dinner. its such a glorious feeling, coasting the straight aways and gliding down hills. I feel so free, so light, with the wind parting the humidity, the end of the road just at my fingertips.
I pass what takes me five minutes to jog in a minute; I can do my whole loop in less than half the time.
worries melt, at least temporarily. I’m not as carefree as i once was, and my bike is no longer a stallion, but it takes me back the way little can.
My only regret is that we didn’t get them out sooner, but there’s still a lifetime to go.
After ballet practice on thursdays I would put on my helmet, hitch up my backpack, and adjust the streamers on my pink bike. Then, with no teachers in sight, I would petal slowly towards the top of the hill and…
Fly.
It was the highlight of my trip home, that’s for sure. My braids would whip around my face, backpack bounce on my back, tires expertly aim towards the middle of the bridge, the brakes useless. Magical, to a third grader.
I rode it during crisp fall mornings, and in sweet scented spring air. During frosty winter days, too. There was no stopping me.
In my fantasies my bike was a horse, an untamed stallion, fresh from the wild. i was a hero. I rode faster than any car could.
Sometimes I daydreamed that i had wings. any second now, any second, I would simply lift off the street. I would have a grand adventure. I would fly over the house tops, meet some other kids who could fly like me, and return home in time for dinner.
My imagination was as big as the sky.
But my bike started collecting dust in the back of our garage for years, after I hit middle school. Honestly, it was forgotten.
This summer my family has taken to riding bikes after dinner. its such a glorious feeling, coasting the straight aways and gliding down hills. I feel so free, so light, with the wind parting the humidity, the end of the road just at my fingertips.
I pass what takes me five minutes to jog in a minute; I can do my whole loop in less than half the time.
worries melt, at least temporarily. I’m not as carefree as i once was, and my bike is no longer a stallion, but it takes me back the way little can.
My only regret is that we didn’t get them out sooner, but there’s still a lifetime to go.
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