My husband and I cruised into town and slid to a stop on our bikes yesterday. Bikes as in bicycles. An older man soon rode up on his bike, very similar to ours, and asked how we like the fat
“We love them!” we said. “We can go anywhere.”
To which, he looked
down, and I saw his friendly smile begin to disappear.
“Wait a minute,” he said, sounding outraged. “You have some
kind of motor on yours. That’s, that’s, that’s ….CHEATING!”
Mind you, it was not the first time since we got our new
electric bikes that I’ve heard someone
say that, which is why I responded swiftly
by
saying, “But, it’s better than sitting on the couch, don’t you agree?”
He begrudgingly admitted it was.
I then walked off while my husband explained our bikes’ many
advantages.
We can peddle as much (or as little) as we want … It’s just
peddle assist. We can turn it off (we never do) … We can go as far as we want
without worrying about having to get back (this is true – unless our batteries
are down to two bars as mine was the other night).
I could go on, and he did, and before the older man left, he
said, “Well, my wife doesn’t really like to ride that much. She might go for
this.”
We should get commission.
But, instead of feeling satisfied that we’d made another
imaginary sale, I got mad. And, the more I rode, the madder I got. It wasn’t
until I was flying down the hill, wind in my hair, hands on my brakes, when I
suddenly exclaimed, “If only I had this bike as a kid!” that it dawned on me THAT is why I am so defensive or
sensitive (or both) about my bike.
Everything really does relate back to childhood.
Here I am, quite the adult, and I still recalled the sting
of being teased about my bike like it was yesterday. It was old with a banana
seat and more than likely a rescue from the dumpster up the street. It didn’t
have brakes, so I had to jump off and let it fall while I ran to a stop. My
neighbors always had the latest and greatest models. I had my little old
faithful Rusty.
Now, do not get me wrong. I loved it. I parked it under the
house in the creepy crawl space just to keep it dry. But, I did get tired of
being last because I was afraid of going too fast down the big hill near my
house without brakes.
My neighbor’s teasing finally got the best of me one day, so
I told him if he said one more word about my bike, I was going to punch him in
the face.
He said one more word.
I don’t remember what the word was, but I do recall the
punch. Only he hit back, and before I knew it, we were in a full on fist fight
in the ditch in front of my neighbor’s house. It went on for what seemed like hours.
I remember thinking, “For God’s sake, won’t someone come and break this up?” It
was the dinner bell that finally did, and, boy, was I glad of it.
Fate was looking out for me, though. Not long after, my dad came home and said, “Leigh, there’s a Huffy at the recreation dept. (where my dad worked), and if no one claims it in six weeks, it’s yours.”
I am sure my dad wished he would have waited until the 5th
week to tell me because I asked every single day, “Did anyone claim the bike?”
At the end of the longest six weeks of my life, I went to
the rec dept. to check it out. It was all that I could imagine and more – a Huffy
with a square puffy seat and cushy handles. And, best of all – brakes.
My neighbor pointed out it was a boys’ bike because of the location
of the bar, but I disagreed. She was a she, and she was mine, all mine. I
brought her home and felt like a queen riding her. She even had a kickstand. I
wouldn’t need to find a tree to prop her against. I could park her anywhere. But,
best of all, I
could ride her anywhere - even down the big hill.
That’s how I feel now when I ride my electric bike – like a
kid on my “new” Huffy.
At one point during our ride, my husband turned around and
said, “Why are you smiling?” I couldn’t explain it then, but this memory is
why.
