Riding bikes with my mom
When I was little, my mom had a bike.
I don’t know if she remembers it. I sure do.
It was red.
It was a five speed with a step through frame, swept back bars and hand brakes. It had fenders. It glided. The seat had springs for comfort. It was a solid and sturdy ride. I loved riding bikes with my mom. I loved how she rode.
My mom was always steady on her bike. She wasn’t fast. She wasn’t slow. She was steady. We would go off on adventure - laps around the neighbourhood. My mom on her bike with big wheels and gears would glide along. At the same time, I’d pedal frantically. I’d start by rushing ahead, bouncing off kerbs, popping wheelies and doing really bad assed skids. Then I’d race back to her.
Sometimes I’d race so far away that I’d lose sight of my mom. I’d panic a bit. Where is she? Where am I? I’d circle around for a bit, confused and worried.
And my mom? She’d be there cycling steadily along. She’d catch right up to me. We would keep going along. There would be times she was ahe…