June 25, 2014
There is so much innocence found in a child's bicycle ride. I marvel at the freedom I see in my sons' faces as they pedal their bikes faster and faster. The wind smacks against their little face as they play, ride, and gain momentum. They squeal with excitement while they pedal quicker and faster with their newfound freedom, their pent-up joy from their new freedom.
My boys have come a long way from my grabbing hands that would reach out from my outreached arms to prevent their forward movement. Especially when they were in those terrible twos and three, and I would restrict their roaming from me that equaled an arm's length.
Now that I'm an adult and have experienced actual loss and have aged, I began to reflect on how the beginning of the loss of my own innocence began. It all started when I forgot about the love of my first bicycle and the happiness of finding it. My bike was all the love I needed. Not the sex I would later discover when I hit puberty. I mean seriously. Having a bicycle was almost God-like for me as a child.
My purity, the joy of my two-wheeled, birthday or Christmas gifted, metal friend, started dissipating into the air. The pleasure of riding a bike began to be choked out of me when I traded my bike in for the girls I discovered and fantasies of my dream car.
It's sad to think that someday, my sons will grow out of this bike-riding stage and eventually ask me for the keys to my car so they can go out on a Saturday night. They are so young and innocent that they deserve to think of nothing else but their leisurely bicycle ride. The wars, stock market, death, and destruction of nations should not taint their childhood.
You should think back to the days of your own bicycle ride as a youth. It's fun to do. Especially during the times when being an adult sucks. I remember going to the local Zayre's Department store where I grew up. The bikes were lined up on racks that were stacked on neat shelves. Each bicycle was available to be taken down and sat on. Of course, the high-up bikes were for adults, but the height placement of the bicycles didn't deter me from choosing a bike from the top level. Picking out my bike is equivalent to choosing my first automobile. Being such a young child, I was never responsible for picking out anything!
"Dad, I want to see that one," I said, pointing out the most fantastic bike in the world.
"Sorry, son, that's an adult bicycle. You have to choose one at your level," my dad said, pointing to a line of bikes at floor level.
I walked the line of bicycles, waiting for one of them to speak to me. There were so many to choose from. Colors, paddings, rims, it had to be correct. I wanted to have the most fantastic bike on my block. Which, unfortunately, would more than likely be the first to be stolen or taken from me by a bigger kid.
"That one," I said gleefully, pointing to a bike gleaming from the fluorescent light bulbs.
The bike was black with thick black mag wheels. Mag wheels were trendy. They weren't the spoke rims that are commonly seen. These were thick plastic you now see on strollers and other push objects like lawnmowers.
The sides were yellow and white checkerboard flags. The bike grips were yellow, with little raised rubber and thinly sliced handlebar grips. It soothed my hands as I touched them. The mag wheels made it heavy, but I loved the bicycle. My dad knew it. He saw the joy in my eyes and bought it.
Once I was home, I couldn't wait to show off my Huffy to all the kids in the neighborhood. There was nothing else like it. My bike. My joy and gateway to innocence in a not-so-innocent world, but I didn't care about the oil scares, Iran Contra Aid, or political elections. It was just my bike, and I was innocent in a brutal world without a care of what was going on, much like my own children today. I want to continue their innocence for as long as their own bikes will take them before I hand them my keys to the car.
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