Pedalin' Memories Recaptured

In our youth, it was our freedom.
It was training wheels clanking on a sidewalk, a ten-speed, a dirt bike.
Some were shiny silver Fugis, others were wore-out hand-me-downs from siblings. If youth was a budding gear-head, "Big Red" was cobbled together from junk parts.
Youth decorated with cards and stickers or spray painted with whatever Dad had in the shed.
There were no helmets or pads (unless your mother was a worry-wart).
There were black and blue marks and shouts of "Hey! Watch this!"
The adventure was potholes and farm dogs or sidewalks and overpasses. And youth always knew the meanest or the steepest.

Then youth got older... and Serious
and freedom was hung upside-down in the garage or collected dust in front of the mower and garden tools in the shed. Serious looked at freedom every now and then and felt guilty about neglecting it, and guilty, also, for wanting it.
Eventually, Serious had youth of their own to raise.
And the new generation of youth needed freedom that was pink and had tassels hanging from the handlebars (and a water bottle).
New Youth was taught how to fix a chain while listening to Serious' stories of worn out pedals, skinning tires, and "be back in an hour".

One day, New Youth said, "Hey, Ma! Why don't ya come riding with me?"
"Are you serious?"
"Nope, you are."
(Oh, God, she was right)
"Ok, I'll get my shoes."

family
life
humor
Indiana

It's been five years -
it's a wonder I have any balance left, John-Boy
The Happy Medium