Last night I rode a cool old cruiser with a seat that lacked any padding at all. But I didn't care. There's something great about riding a bike on a hot, so hot, summer night: it's called instant breeze. I rattled around on this old bike hoping nothing would break, feeling like a reckless driver without a seat belt on. A few visions of spaghetti sauce colored knees and mangled feet passed through my mind, but I soon let them go. It just wasn't likely I'd fall. Somehow I had faith in this old bike that my dad had proudly proclaimed, "kept air in its tires!"
Riding around on the country roads near my childhood home I became ageless. I knew if anyone saw me they wouldn't be able to tell my age. I look young anyway, but especially on a hot summer night, riding around giddily on a bike. Only kids do that sort of thing. Right?
Huge 4x4 trucks (the standard ride in small town America) rambled past me, not slowing down, but thankfully scooting over to the other side of the road. Families sat outside on their small patches of green bermuda grass, enjoying the almost tolerable heat the evening and shade trees brought. I passed a tractor, but was mostly watching the horses across the street. Munching on tall grass, they looked serene, almost bored. A tiny donkey made me smile.
Near the end of my ride, the bike fell apart a bit, becoming more rickety and jangling around as I spun the wheels with my pumping. I sounded like I was driving the old Chevy from the yard rather than this engineless machine; front fender scraping on the tire and creating sparks as the rubber warmed. (Okay, they were tiny pebbles flying off the tire, but they really looked like sparks.)
Guess it's time I learned how to fix up a bike.
On my way back home I passed my lifelong neighbor's house. The tradition when passing each other's homes is to honk our car horns as if to say, "Hi, neighbor!" As I passed, I hollered out, "beep beep beep beep beep!!!" feeling silly and happy all at once, my ridiculously loud bike probably announcing my presence more than my yelling.
It wasn't until I got home, sweat trickling down my back and making my glasses slide down my nose, that I saw the name of the bike.
Free Spirit.
Perfect.