I want a bike. But I’d prefer not to pay for one.
I used to love riding around on the sketchy and slightly rusted bikes that my parents had found for us as children. It was my first sense of freedom in the form of transportation. I could ride my bike for hours. My friends and I created elaborate scenarios in our little heads: our bikes were cars, planes, whales. We had to go to work, save the planet, on a date. We were villains, heroes, orphans (I swear books and Hollywood glorify orphans – thus being one was always on our go to ‘play house’ list).
If I were to guess I’d say I’d ridden a bike twice in the past ten years. I got a flat tire (that never got fixed), and then I learned to drive (quickly became preferred mode of transportation). But I really would like a bike – one with character, vintage, and a basket. I want to ride down the Boulevard in high-waisted shorts pretending that I don’t live in a time where jeans and hoodies are the only acceptable attire. I think it would be lovely to bask in that childlike joy while peddling around town.
However, I refuse to be a crazy biker. The kind that ride on the side of the street risking not only their life, but any driver who risks getting around them. I don’t understand city bikers, it’s so dangerous and they have to breath in exhaust fumes all day. And around here there’s steep hills everywhere, I imagine they must suck something fierce on a bicycle.
I’d rather be the leisure biker that weaves about the local trails with birds singing and trees forming a canopy over my head.
I want a bike.