It was oppressively muggy and humid that summer afternoon in Sacramento. Sinbad Court, the quiet cul-de-sac on which my family lived, was so sweltering I swore I could see the heat vapor rising from the ground as if the asphalt was evaporating. At five years old, however, the prospect of playing far outweighs the inconvenience of heat. There was a vital level of play to be achieved this day; I was determined to acquire the status of “bike rider.”
I was always an ambitious child. I don’t recall my age, but I remember telling my mom, “Mom, I’m going to go swim underwater.” Water is a frightening element when you’re a child, but I decided I was done being afraid of it. I walked outside, stepped into the wading pool, laid flat on my stomach, took a deep breath, immersed my head underwater and held it there until my lungs were burning. And that was that; I was a swimmer or at least a submersible.
Graduating from my big wheel, which was in sad condition from my multitude of power-slides, burnouts and skids, my father put the training wheels on my sister’s old bike. I rode the training wheels twice and then insisted that my dad remove them. Reluctantly, he obliged me. He handed the bicycle back to me and I rode off. And that was that; I was a bike rider.
I rode that pink Huffy around the cul-de-sac proud as a peacock. Later, I rode out of the cul-de-sac and down the street where some older kids mocked me for riding a girl’s bike. I hadn’t even realized there was a difference between girl and boy bikes. I rushed home and promptly clothes-pinned some playing cards to the spokes. In my five-year-old mind, this made the bike a motorcycle and every five-year-old boy knows that girls play with dolls and spread cooties; girls don’t ride motorcycles. Of course my argument didn’t hold up with the older, less imaginative kids. It didn’t matter much to me because I did what I was determined to do that day.
I have been riding bicycles ever since, although, I’ve more recently transferred to a boy’s bike.
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