Born to ride

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

tires.

“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 5^th 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.