New Road Bikes On Friday Morning

Once the alarm went off, both girls groaned wanting to sleep for another hour. Unfortunately, dinner with the Hollis' was happening very shortly. Both girls got out of their bed and walked over to the bathroom to freshen up. Carmilla washed her face as Laura brushed her teeth, vice versa. Once they we're woken up, Carmilla walked over to her dresser while Laura walked over to her closet. Laura pulled out a lovely form fitting black dress that showed off her neck and her toned arms. Carmilla slid into her infamous leather pants, threw on a black tank, and topped it with a black blazer with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. "Hey Laura, can you pass me my red heels?"

“Bob” calls Brenda out the window. “Come on in sweetie, we have a lot to do today! We barely have time to reflect on our situation right now, due to the 4th of July party coming up; the Smith’s 2008 fashion event; and, your get together with the guys…all in just two days.” Bob, a middle-aged man, lives in New York with his wife, Brenda, and his parents. Soaking up the sun, he stands dressed in a Polo short –sleeve and plaid shorts on the front sidewalk of his Mom and Dad’s home. He calls to his wife, “Brenda, come out here and join me. I need to ask you something.”

It is early October, the final weekend of the mountain biking season at Northstar Ski Resort. I am waiting to load my bike onto the lift. There are long lines for everything, because the place is packed. Riders rocket down the mountain, sending cinnamon colored dust into the air. A breeze blows this across the hills. The trees are green, and the afternoon sun warms the ground. The time of day makes it a bit chilly. The metallic noise of bikes can be heard, but not always seen. The sound of both joy and pain fills the air around me. I can smell only the wonderful scents of trees and overpriced food. I suddenly feel a nudge on my shoulder.

Grudgingly, I packed my track bag with everything I’d need: my trustworthy Nike’s, a water bottle, and a granola bar for after the race. I opened the door and a cool breeze greeted me. I took a deep breath of the cool and refreshing autumn air. Walking to the car door, each step became more treacherous and stressful than the last. When I finally got into the car, I slunk down into my seat. We hadn’t even left the driveway and already my nerves had turned me into a stress soup. The ride to Poolesville was excruciating. I spent the duration of the trip staring out the front windshield watching the endless fields of corn whiz by. When we arrived in town, a strange and unfamiliar feeling of calm washed over me. I’m not sure quite why I felt this way, but my stress seemed to evaporate as soon as we arrived. We drove through the endless sea of cars and were lucky enough to find a spot in the high school parking lot.

Ahead crowds of cyclists pack the streets. Bobby’s twin throws his cap high in the air and catches it in jubilation. The Dolphin Statue is near, even if I can’t see it. I bike faster to join them, though the heat and exhaustion have taken its toll. I slow down and pause to lean my head on the handlebars. My body caves.

Around five, I leave to meet Mark in San Francisco. I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge despite a fear of heights. Of which I discovered years ago, when I walked with Mark and Vivian across this same bridge for a breast cancer charity event.

Imagine being on the back of an older brother's bike, arms hugging his chest tightly and flying down a hill, wind flowing through hair billowing out behind and lungs sore from shouting for joy. The next day is made up of begging for a bike and the passion to be the same one flying down that hill, wheels turning too fast to see and the landscape shooting by too fast to make out more than a blur. Soon, a bike is given with a bow on top, cherry red and oh, so beautiful. The next week is spent learning how to ride it; falling down, trying to balance, falling down again, and still, can't balance. Finally, enough practice allows the freshly polished cherry red bike to perch at the top of the hill, an eagle ready to fly, and then down it goes, seemingly soaring over the pavement.

Once we got to the Trolley Trail, I noticed the sheer number of bikers. We must have passed at least a dozen of them, most going the same way we were. There was not much talking, except for the occasional shouting of the word “SQUIRREL!” whenever we saw a squirrel.

We met (again) by accident, as I was unaware of her summer job as the ice-cream parlor girl, when I walked into the Sugar Shoppe, my shoulders hunched and aching from having slaved all morning over my typewriter. It was the closest thing to a bar near my summer chalet, and I had forbidden myself to drive farther than five miles to find a beer. She was wearing a candy striper’s uniform, the dress cut straight and box-like, lace socks sagging around her awkward boney ankles and her hair tied back with a tired-looking ribbon. The electronic buzzer that warned her of entering customers rung it’s hollow tone as I opened the door and Vitya’s face jumped with an adorable surprise.

The bike route along the Pacific coastline is beautiful, but bicycling on unfamiliar terrain scares her and is grueling. She vows never to do anything this reckless again.

As time passes, our youthful explorations become more and more sophisticated. Bicycles will take us many miles farther from home than any of our parents, busy with houses full of babies, ever realize.

On what was supposed to be a typical day this summer, I planned on going for a run to start getting in shape for cross country. On a whim, however, I decided to go for a bike ride instead. I put my shoes on, grabbed my phone, plugged my headphones in, jumped on my bike, and left. I traveled onto the bike path at the end of my street and started my journey to essentially nowhere.

What was once an average daily commute to the office had become the place we hated each other most. Our ritual ruined us. Every morning before our drive to our respective offices, Frank brought me a slice of toast – buttered on both sides – for breakfast. I’d adjust his tie once he placed himself in the driver’s seat. His hands always had smears of butter on them, and neither of us wanted him to ruin his clothes.

“You got it! Keep pedaling!” My dad yelled to me from the driveway. I was finally doing it. Zipping through the green grass on two wheels, instead of four. I went around the trampoline and as I was riding back through the grass the opposite way I can see his face brighten up. The sun reflecting right off his clean head back to the sky. A few drips of sweat coming down his face with his water in one hand and the other in the air. But, my favorite part of coming back towards him for the first time on my bike was seeing his mouth go from pink to white with one big smile from ear to ear. Once his smile is in my sight I can’t help but flex the muscles in the apples of my cheeks right back to

What an ideal time to go for a walk and get some fresh air. The outside loudly calls for a look out around the neighbourhood to perceive how things have changed, and how things have remained identical. As I wander down the street, it’s like I'm on my trustworthy bike riding around as a young man. I'm on yet another grand mission on my bicycle once more. Gracious, the spots my bicycle could take me, and did.