photo credit: Tevjan Pettinger | Flickr Creative Commons | Okay, that’s not a Trek 7.1, but it’s cool to see a bike in the sky, right? E.T. phone home! 

Last spring we bought my boys Trek 7.1s. 21 inches tall, seven speeds. Up to that point, our longest family ride had been a halting exodus to the DQ, filled with promises of sundaes on the way out, and complaints of stomachaches on the way back. But now the boys were older and taller and their new bikes weighed less than eighty pounds. We rode round-trips of nine miles to the library, thirteen miles to the zoo, and, one day, twenty-two miles to a farmer’s market.

 

It became My Favorite Thing to go on rides with the boys. I wanted to do it every day, but I held back out of fear of burning them out (see also: the library, YMCA pool, kung fu movies).

When I ride with them now, we have a destination. They still think endeavors should have a point, and that bike rides should have a purpose, preferably food-related. I ride behind them to call out directions but also, okay, to engage in a little magical thinking. I don’t have the awareness or grit of my father, but a part of me believes that if I can hold them with my eyes, I can keep them safe.

 

And I can marvel at them. At us, riding together. This is the line of us. My lineage.