photo credit: Nels Olsen | Flickr Creative Commons

It was the ‘80s. We lived in the middle of America. So of course we were a Schwinn family.

 

My favorite Schwinn was a glitterblue Sting-Ray with swept-back handlebars. The banana seat was sparkly grey with a black stripe that would get hot in the sun. Not so hot that it burned me; just pleasantly hot in a way I knew I should keep to myself.

 

I decked it out with gadgets. A bell. A speedometer/odometer. A light that was powered by a tiny generator strapped to the wheel: the faster I went, the brighter the light burned. With this bike, I could make energy change forms, from speed into light. This fascinated me. That was the kind of nerd I was.

 

Every year on the Fourth of July, my neighborhood had a kids’ parade. We decorated our bikes with crepe paper and streamers and whatnot, then followed a fire truck around the town. I loved this parade until the year I turned twelve.

 

That year, I wrapped my bike in crepe paper until it was a serious fire hazard. At the parade, I led the pack of riders, swooping back and forth behind the fire truck, slaloming all over the street. The bike had these fat tires that made a satisfying noise when they torqued a hard turn. I was probably making siren noises with my mouth. I was into it, man.

 

Then I saw two boys from my school, up at the corner, straddling ten-speeds. One pointed at me and said something to his friend. The other boy nodded. They didn’t say anything as I passed. They didn’t have to. I could see myself through their eyes.

 

I dropped to the middle of the pack and rode straight down the street until I was done with the parade. For my birthday that year I asked for a ten-speed.