As a child in the West I could never figure out why we got out of school in June. In the month of June, it was still chill on some mornings, rainy on others. Then, to add insult to injury, we had to go back the first part of September, when the air was a fine golden wine that invited laughter and the shedding of long pants and shirts as we got into trouble as only the innocent can, down at the swimming hole.
But like kids do, we'd take in every last second, swimming, jumping from a rope swing into clear waters, ripping through the woods seeking things we thought was ours alone to discover. An old scrape of an antler, the footprint of a stealth fox, the glimmer of red the only sign that she had passed.
I was crushed, praying for what I wanted, not needed, as some people do, as if God was some sort of cosmic room service. Yes, I prayed for a shiny yellow Schwinn. It was not to be, and knowing how hard my parents worked, I tried not to let my disappointment show.
But I'd watch the other kids from up the hill, in the big houses of cedar and glass, whizzing down the hills on their brand new bikes. It wasn't jealousy so much as it was like looking through the telescope we'd watch the stars with, the lens tempting us with places we wish to go, that our senses can see, but which our limitations can not affirm.
I didn't whine, I didn't beg, I rode the heck out of my bike, hoping that if one day it sort of spontaneously combusted from that bump coming down the hill to Mint Valley at Warp Factor 4, they'd be forced to buy me a new one. But it didn't happen, the combustion, Warp Factor 4, OR the new bike.
Then, one hot late Summer day, Dad got up early. He normally rises before the sun, but this day he was up REALLY early. When he came home he bustled something covered with a tarp into the garage and told us, kindly but firmly, to stay out. We figured it was woodworking stuff, a hobby he loved and that was that.
Then we headed out into the fields, the kids from the "hill" where the big houses were, on their new bikes, me on a dilapidated embarrassment of a little girls bike, complete with the hated basket. I wanted a big kids bike, a cool bike. I was almost 10 for Pete's sake. But my parents knew better than to give us everything we wanted, when we asked for it, so we'd not grow up into that sense of entitlement that can only lead to disaster, as individuals, as a nation.
But, cool bike or not, I loved to ride, and we'd race the wind, freedom in the musical rhythm of foot and spoke and pavement. You can't help but be drawn in by the composition of the rhythm of leg and wheel, taking freedom from the movement, knowing that the effort you put into it is what you get back, in freedom and speed.
The streets attested to the power of this drive, kids racing up and down, with war cries and laughter. Seeking out friends, seeking out adventures. Especially if it took us out into the woods that surrounded our little mountain town.The bike got us to this place, but it was always ours. Clear blue streams gurgling with trout, flotillas of the first yellow leaves rushing on, gathering in clusters against the rocks. Peninsulas of Aspen, trails of discovery. We'd race down the hills on our bikes, shouting over the galloping hooves of our imaginary steads. A hawk dives from the sky. The wilderness was his home, but it was ours to claim.
We'd drink from a clear mountain stream if we got thirsty and ripped more than one pair of knees out of a pair of jeans, which our mothers would patch, not replace. Our Mom's were all at home doing what Mom's secretly did in the day. My own, having been a Sheriff in an adjoining big county, was high up on the Cool Chart, as was my Dad, but we never felt tethered by them, only protected. They trusted us to travel in pairs, to wander in by dinner, and to come home if anyone accidentally lost a limb or caught a really big trout.
They seemed to understand that we needed to burn off the energy of youth and growth. They knew who we were with, and likely where we would be, but allowed us to work through the precursors of teen hormones, exploring, building a raft, not cooped up inside. They grew up with this generation of play, as would we.
Our toy soldiers, clashed and died while we, as general or spy, ran between the thick green trees, until twilight rolled over us in clean, warm waves. Then, with only the impending darkness and an empty belly we were called home. We'd gather our wounded to us, the GI Joe that lost his arm in a tragic lumberjack accident, the precision plastic firearm that only dribbled water now and field nurse Barbi, that never hat the appropriate outfit. Our next door neighbor boy Craig, with his skinned knee and redheaded Big Bro, with his sunburn, retreated back to their bikes, which they rode together as best friends for the next 40 years.
School was almost upon us, and every last bit of adventure was squeezed from the day before we arrived back home. We crept into the pantry, grabbing a Hostess Snowball from the cupboard, then rushed out to see what Dad was doing, cheeks stuffed with chocolate and marshmallow like wild eyed squirrels. There was my Dad. Not angry that we were dirty, with torn pants, and having a snack before Mom's home made supper, but smiling. Beaming actually. And there behind him was a 10 speed. Not a Schwinn. But a Huffy, repaired and freshly painted in my favorite color, with new decals and new tape on the handlebars.
"Would you like it?" he asked, with the hushed hesitation of that question that you knew, before you asked, what my answer would be.
At first I was astonished, not believing this was happening. Then the astonishment faded away, slow at first, then fading quickly, then quietly, like a piece of iron being forged, so hot it glows, a glow that sparks and then ebbs to the contentment of its final form, what it was destined to be.
Dad had gotten up at o'dark hundred to drive to the city, where their police department was auctioning off unclaimed lost or stolen bikes to raise money for the community. He got up when some folks were going to bed, and waited in the cold for hours to bid on this bike, which he got for $15, then repaired, painted and cleaned up. It wasn't new, but it gleamed with promise, the handlebars shone with invitation and it was fast. Lord, it was fast.
My bike now is mostly a four wheel drive truck. I have one at work as well, to get to places people never want to go. The woods are still my second home, be it play or sometimes work, quiet bluffs and valleys that hide their dead. I may still come home dirty, with clothes that have to be thrown out in a bag or burned. Dinner will be a quick stop at the store, just enough for the needs of a small household. It s a frantic life some days, but being a grown up doesn't mean we have to grow up, still wishing for the same comforts and joys we experienced as children.
With my goodies from the store, I head on north towards home. On the way, I take a side trip through a park and wildlife refuge, I roll down the window, feeling the cold air on my face as if riding my beloved bike. Then, from the woods as the light seeps from the sky, a form off in the distance. I slow, and then stop in wonder. A large whitetail rushes from the trees, antlers held high, splashing over dappled current, then disappearing without sound. His size and form leaving goosebumps on my skin, as if the departure of his presence blew hot and cold on me.As I sat and watched him rush away, I wondered where that old bike of mine ended up. Probably handed down to a niece or nephew, though neither of us could recall. But I will always remember the look on my Dad's face when he wheeled it over to me, and the feeling in me when I rode it for the first time, flying down our rural road, a fighter pilot of wheels and gears, my Big Brother riding close by as wingman.
In a few weeks, I think I need to go out to the garage. There is a bike there, the mountain variety, that's been harnessed too long. The sun is out, the roads are dry. If I look down, I can see my face reflected in the polished handlebars, the face of a fighter, the scribe of rigid bone and the folly of men, overlaid with the wondrous childlike glee of unbound speed that knows not yet fate nor death.I'm going to forget what the neighbors might think or how sore I might be later. I'm going to climb up on that bike as soon as I can and put that wind back in my wheels, the shadow of my wingman, always behind me.
- Brigid
