Edmonton Bicycle Commuters Society

at 8:28 pm posted by Molly

Hello Old Friend

With my forehead pressed against the window, I’m dreaming of snow and white glows.
black whips past my eyes like sharp needles, bolting me from my quite sunny dreams.
“Wait! Stop!” i cry out. my dad stops the truck and i hop out, my only comment is “i think that’s one of my stolen bikes!”
i stomp towards an old black figure, snow building up on my boots making them heavy, as if trying to stop me from getting closer.
It shone in the sunny sky, but it was a hallow shine, holding memories full of pain.
i grip the handles, pushing it towards the truck.
“it is my old bike! the black one they stole” my grip getting tighter as i try and shove the bike through deep snow.
“are you sure?” my dad asked, “it might be someone else’s”

i force my eyes to look down. the once proud bright red sticker that demanded attention was torn and ragged like a violently ripped off pair of old jeans. my eyes drifted towards the handle bars and front portion of the frame. its trademark signature was there. one of the caps that had popped off of the so called shocks was gone while the other remained. the empty mounts that once cradled lights were smooched but still in its designed place. yes, this was my beloved bike.

by dad spoke about how we should call a care taker and check, but i was ignoring him.
once i started to take in the view of my poor old bike i couldn’t stop. the paint wasn’t as black and gloss as i remember, the kickstand wasn’t as sturdy looking, and the bottle carrier was missing leaving only a sign of a harsh struggle.

i finally looked up and saw that we had pushed the bike back to where i originally found it. i leaned it against the cold brick wall and began to run my hands along it like a blind man.
the gear shifter was busted and clinging to the bike by a simple wire. all the break lines where torn and violently ripped from their designed home. ends and all exposed wire were red with rust, as if they were bleeding. my heart tightened in pain. the breaks were bent in odd directions, like a broken leg, looking wrong and painful.

i couldn’t look at it any longer. Why?! how could they?! didn’t they think that perhaps someone might have loved this? that this poor broken body once brought joy?
violence surged through me filling my veins with fire. i wished to put the person in as much pain as my bike and my heart were in. my knuckles whitened and all i could think of was shoving some little punk against the wall and shaking him till his teeth became my wind chime.

my dad voice cut through my rage like a sharp white blade. my hands feel stiff from being balled into a fist. i look at the angry red marks from my nails on the tender inside of my palm, and realized that violence does not solve violence.

we walked back to the truck. i climbed in and took one last look at my crippled bike, and we drove home. the snow wasn’t as white, and the music coming from the radio wasn’t as cheerful. i feel hollow.  memories of happy time, where the wind would whipped past me as i sailed upon my old bike, played behind my eyelids. tears mingled with the memories threatening to spill over.

“perhaps the other bike is at the impound. it might be in the same shape. that one would be worth fixing at least. the black one was just a cheap old thing.” my dad spoke out loud. all i could do was nod. the empty pit in my stomach and the tight knot in my throat never loosened with that thought.
it was my 1st real bike, the one i really learned to ride on. try and rememeber your first bike and how much you enjoyed the new freedom. now imagin it being totally bike-raped. thats what i saw today. so i tried to capture the emotions and the pain i felt in the story. i may have succeded, may have not. but i tried.
-Ashley Hinecker-