When we were young, my dad would take my sister and me out for a bike ride once a week to pick up the Sunday paper. The corner convenience store right outside the neighborhood was the perfect distance away. But we always took the long way. Up, down, and back up again we rode, along the hilly contours ubiquitous and so characteristic of rural Massachusetts. There was a secret shortcut through the back, one that required the utmost bravery to offroad down a steep dirt path riddled with bulky, twisted tree roots. In my memories, each one of these Sunday mornings, the weather was always perfect. The wind through my hair, despite my helmet head, made me feel weightless. It wasn't until much, much, later - long after we stopped these bike rides - that I realized how much I loved them....
A few weekends ago, the three of us went out on a short ride through our subdivision. No longer on our childhood bicycles, my sister and I felt a bit wobbly riding these vintage and just-a-little-too-large-that-they're-a-little-scary bicycles my dad got for a total of $15 (for two bicycles!) from a police auction more than a decade ago. The roads were flat and we rolled slowly along the sidewalks. Good speeds for us to get our "bicycle legs" back.
And the weather was just like I remember.
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