Baby Racer

I remember the first bike I ever chose for myself. I was four years old. The bike was blue and white with a skinnier frame than what I was used to, lightweight and expensive. It was a nice bike that quickly caught my eye, as it hung from the ceiling of the shop, apparently on special display. It just so happened to be the right size for me, which was surprising, considering I was only four years old and that this thing was designed specifically for dirt racetracks. I reckon prodigies are probably inspired in a similar fashion.

My parents were like, “You sure you want that one?” seeming somewhat impressed. I excitedly nodded my noggin all awhile keeping my gaze fixed upon the beautiful bicycle, eager to take it for a spin up and down our neighborhood streets. I reckoned my eyes might’ve been sparkling or something sweet like that. “Okay, let’s get it then,” my parents promptly agreed.

In no time I found myself engaged in crazy races on a nearby dirt track. I was the youngest kid there, and I always came in last place, more like a turtle overwhelmed by swarms of vultures than anything. But think about someone so fragile even being there, let alone competing on those tracks! This became a weekly excursion that my parents would take me on. These events were held evenings, with bright lights towering to illuminate the scene. It was all such a groovy ambiance and very satisfying to my youthful perspective.

I remember one day I decided to free my hands from off the brakes during that initial downhill stage which leads to the first jump. It was never a jump for me until that day. I felt like I was soaring for a grand moment in time and even landed on the other side but quickly lost my balance and fell. I noticed in my peripheral, as I laid there on the ground, my father running toward me from the bleachers in a worried rush. But no, I didn’t break any of my baby bones.