Years ago my son assembled a bicycle for me, a sleek golden model with thin tires, 15 speeds, hand brakes, and a top tube across the frame – the sign of a boy’s bike. I enjoyed the ride and relished the sensation on my face as I leaned forward against the wind and struggled to go faster, reaching my destination exhausted but happy.
Recently it became a challenge to hoist my leg over the bar and reach the pedals. Of course the bike did not suddenly grow or change – I did. I shrunk an inch or so over the past decade. I began to feel somewhat unsafe on the bike. I could hike my leg over the bar, lift myself onto the pedals and ride off, but what if I had to dismount quickly? I would not be able to whisk my leg over the bar rapidly.
I wanted to feel safe on my bike.
The bike shop in my town has a Labor Day sale every year. The store sells bikes it rents over the summer. I decided to check out the offerings.
The sale bikes were lined up along two sides of the store fronting the street. I strolled down the line. Boy’s bikes, bikes too high, too expensive, and too complicated, equipped with unneeded amenities. I did not want a tricycle, common around my town with a lot of retirees.
My first choice was a yellow bike that checked all the boxes except one, an important one that forced me to move on. When I attempted a test ride, I realized the bike was too high for me. I found it easy to place my foot on one pedal, but my toes barely reached the ground when I sat on the seat. I wanted two feet solidly on the ground before riding off.
Then I noticed a powder blue beauty with pink tires, a pink bell, and a basket attached to the handlebars. Perfect for a ten-year-old girl. I pictured pigtails flying as a little girl raced to catch up with her brother…
I continued to peruse the options. A little girl’s bike did not initially catch my fancy.
But the selection was limited.
“Want to try this one?” the saleslady inquired, pointing to the girl’s bike.
“Why not,” I thought.
I hauled myself onto the seat, quite comfortable compared to the slender seat on my bike, and cycled down the sidewalk. A bit unsteady at first, I quickly got my groove. I rode around the block and realized I found my new companion.
We bonded.
I purchased my new old bike – new to me, old and used by the shop before it found a second home with me. If or when new tires are needed, they will NOT be pink. And I am not sure how long I can look at the pink bell; far too cute for me. The bike has no gears, but they are not needed in a town blessed with flat terrain.
I am now the proud owner of a little girl’s bike that has morphed into an old lady’s bike.
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