Yesterday, I climbed on my bike, taking off at a fast clip for a three generation ride, my first ride of the summer. It’s August.
All good intentions to buckle down on this September-like day had flown out the window when my daughter floated this proposition. Our mountain and trail bikes had hung forlornly in disuse for too long. The rack had not been mounted on my car all season.
I had no idea how depressed I had been about this injury-imposed abstinence until our breaking-out plan went into motion.
Grasping my two year old granddaughter’s hand, we clambered upstairs to help root my biking attire from beneath the bed. Lindsay rummaged in the garage for helmets. She pumped up my tires.
Spontaneously, I screamed as I rounded the turn onto the bike path. I like a good scream almost as much as I like bursting into song in public places.
“Freedom!”
The exclamation exploded from my lungs. I hollered into the heavens from the deepest recess of my soul.
So complete, so childlike, and so familiar to fly along under the blue sky in the breeze, puffy clouds overhead. A wondrous perk, the dear ones following behind. We three, sharing bliss.
As youngsters, bikes allowed us to expand our range, but they also facilitated our growing understanding of the world, and later, our creativity. I craved an “English bike,” concurrent with Beatlemania in the early 1960’s. Raleigh bikes, with hand brakes and three gears, were more complex and allowed us to go faster than our first simple Columbia models.
We mounted cards into spokes, or wound streamers there to watch the colors melt together on rotating tires. Riding in packs or cycling alone, our bikes became more than conveyances. They were extensions of ourselves, and they expressed our dreams.
My green bike with yellow stars transported me through college. Now, I bike to enjoy nature.
I also bike for joy. (c)
