On Your Bike

June 24, 2015

I learned to ride a bicycle on the small lane that ran alongside my grandparent’s pink cottage in the parish of Paget on the island of Bermuda. Crab grass makes a good cushion for a wobbly cyclist’s tumbles. My grandmother, in white Keds and a lemon yellow visor, must have given me a hundred pushes before I finally found the balance and courage to ride the length of the lane. Many years later, when I moved to Toronto in my early 20s, my father bought me a navy blue Norco with a basket and a bell that I rode everywhere. When I was three-months pregnant with Iole I put the bike away in the garage, where it’s been gathering dust ever since. Today, Iole and I hosed it down of leaves and cobwebs and scrubbed the handle bars clean. We took it to our local bicycle shop (where my dad bought her a bike, too) to fill the tires with air, and then off we sped up and down our windy, sunny street. It’s true what they say about riding a bicycle. Within seconds, I felt like my feet had never left the peddles.

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