Like Riding a Bike

When I was in high school, I had it in my head that I wanted a yellow mountain bike.  I was watching Seinfeld episodes at the time, and Jerry had a mint green bike hanging up on a back wall of his apartment.  And I thought, I want a happy-colored bike.  Why did I want a mountain bike?  No idea.  Why yellow?  Anyone's guess.  But I wouldn't let it go, until a yellow mountain bike, which my parents searched the ends of the earth for, appeared in my living room one Christmas Eve.  I eyed it longingly for several more months until the black ice cleared and I could actually ride it.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed some retro-looking Schwinns advertised in the Target sale ad, and just as in high school, I couldn't seem to let it go.  I wanted one.  Marketing experts have got us 30-somethings pegged with nostalgic toys.  Cabbage Patch Kids, Smurfs, Care Bears, Transformers, and now bikes with big, high handlebars and baskets attached to the front.  Very likely we are drawn to them because it makes us feel younger, comforted, happy.  Or perhaps we're financially independent now, and can buy these things for ourselves, instead of begging our parents for months on end and wishing on stars. 

Oliver and I were on an adventure to Target, both quarantined from our usual Mondays with colds.  After picking up necessities (which Oliver decided was "uh, nnnanas, (bananas), crackers, and chips, looooots of chips"), we strolled along to the bikes.  And there she was, a pink retro-Schwinn, yes pink, on sale.  I took these photos and sent it to Michael, with the caption:  "I"m in love."

Back in the parking lot, I checked a text that I had missed from Michael.  "Target?  You can get it if you promise to use it! Excited for bike rides with you."

"Oliver!" I turned to the back seat.  "Daddy says we should go back into Target and check out the bike!"

"Yeah!"

And so we went back in, and I heaved it off the display shelf.  Michael wisely suggested a test-ride before purchasing.  I looked ahead and waited for the aisle to clear.  I began to straddle the seat, then started to lose confidence.  When was the last time I rode a bike?  4 years, at least, I thought. I thought about my favorite Frasier episode, when Frasier and Niles learn to ride a bike for the first time as adults.  Frasier was so worried about crashing into a tree that every time he began to ride, he did just that, face-planting into the very thing he was so focused on.

 I began to place my foot on the pedal but tipped off to the side. 

"Uh, Oliver, maybe move behind Mommy."

"Okay.  Careful, Mommy!"

"Yeah."

"Careful!"

I stood up on the pedal, but soon discovered the seat to be too high.  I looked nervously at the narrow aisle, and the display to the right...and crashed into it.  Down goes Frasier.

Sure I had permanently damaged my lady business, I picked up the bike and myself from under it.  Oliver just stared at me. 

"Um, I think it's a little too big for Mommy," I said. 

"Yeah."

Seven hours later, Michael picked up the bike for me, with assurance that the bike seat could be lowered even further.  He was right.  Oliver and Michael stood in the garage by my pink LuLu, wrenches still in hand. 

"Give it a try," Michael said.

I looked out into the cul-de-sac, where mothers were socializing on the lawns. 

"I will," I promised, "when they all go inside."

"Honey," Michael said, "come on, seriously.  Just go."

"I don't remember how to ride a bike," I whined like a little girl, to match my pink bike with a basket.

"Go. Come on.  Now."

Oliver chimed in, drawing circles in the air with his hands, "Pedal, Mommy, pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal.  That's how you ride bike."

Getting lessons on riding a bike from a nearly-3-year-old was just the sweet humility that I needed to get me out of the garage.  And I rode for a while, being sure to take a less-traveled gravel road, because I like the idea of riding with a basket on a country road.  5 minutes later, I sailed confidently back into the cul-de-sac with a smile on my face. 

Then biffed the dismount.