My first bicycle sits in the spare room, in a corner next to my desk. It is a reminder of how low to the ground I used to hover, before stretching to the 5 feet, 10 inches I am now. Technically it is not a bicycle at all, but a quad runner, with four wheels and no pedals. The molded plastic yellow seat with black polka dots is more of a pineapple shape than the popular banana shape on bikes of my school-age years. But this wheeled wonder pre-dated my entry into school. With its raised handlebars, it was more of a scooter on which my toddler self sped around the large expanse of my grandmother’s driveway and cemented back patio.
Dad and I found it when we cleared three generations worth of belongings from the outbuildings of Gramma’s property. She passed away in spring of my first year in college, having lived at the home she and my grandpa built until three days before her death, at the amazing age of 90. I grew up hearing my parents call it “The Farm,” though I don’t remember calling it that myself. It stopped being a farm when Grandpa died, which was before I was even born, before my parents were married. Over the years, Gramma sold off sections of the land to developers so that eventually she retained only a couple of acres.
The outbuildings where my bike waited, as if it had only been a few days since I last rode it, rather than a good 15 years, were three large garages with peaked roofs. There was no question in my mind about keeping it. There are some pieces of your history that demand you save them and fold them into your present life, especially when they surprise you and pop up again gleaming with happy memories during an otherwise time of great sadness.
When friends visit and notice the little Playskool vehicle they say, “Is that ..” and I jump in brightly, “Yes! My first bike!” Like building LEGOs, riding bikes is something I have loved from the very earliest years, and something that continues to define my days.
Some weekday mornings, my bike is transportation to work. On weekends, it might also serve as transportation, to the local donut shop or my favorite breakfast house. Many times, I straddle the two-wheeler for a workout, putting a good many miles between myself and my house. This past summer, it was a means of exploring an old rail bed turned into a trail skirting between Montana and Idaho, carrying us through tunnels and over trestle bridges. Also, I saw a piece of Bellingham for the first time while astride my bicycle, and so too San Juan Island.
I am lucky to actually own two bikes right now, each one suited for slightly different kinds of riding. The newest one is a hybrid with knobby tires, great for gravel paths like the rail-trail in Montana. It’s also my sight-seeing bike. Some warm summer evenings I get home from work and need to get outside, but don’t necessarily feel the urge to work up a sweat. So, I hop on Marina (I like to name my bikes) and cruise around the neighborhood, with no particular route in mind. Instead, I turn when I feel like it, maybe jump a curb or two, maybe go in circles to check on the house with the crazy plant growing to the height of a tree. I’ll double back to check out a block I haven’t been on in several weeks, all the while admiring flower gardens, noticing new paint jobs, getting ideas for my own planting or yard decorating.
This meandering through the neighborhood is not unlike how I scooted around Gramma’s yard. I’m in no hurry, just enjoying the motion and the feel of making myself go as fast or as slow as I’d like. Riding my bike as an adult is one of my favorite ways to feel free of cares and worries. It is the best way to play.
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