One morning I was stoned and drunk off of a mimosa at Swinger's on Beverly. Los Angeles being a city of all forms of diversity, I watched a family pay their bill and pack up to go. We were all seated outside on a strangely overcast summer day.
Their car - a Volvo station wagon - was parked at the meter to which my bicycle was locked. As the family's small daughter, dressed all in pink and sporting a crown of soft blonde curls, approached the vehicle, she beheld my bicycle, its own pink allure calling to her.
She considered it from a distance, taking in its shape.
Children generally terrify me, but I thought that maybe I could bestow some life-changing magic upon this one. After all, the LA cycling community is always looking for new recruits. "Bicycle," I said, "Can you say bicycle?" She looked at me and mouthed the word, but only a gurgle came out. "It's a bicycle. Bicycle."
She was overcome with some sort of glee, flapping her arms. She turned back to my steed, stepping bravely toward it. She reached out for the small decorative rainbow Murakami sunshine dangling from my saddle. I watched, curious for her next move. Before she could touch it, her mother called her name, and she withdrew.
With her younger brother strapped into his car seat, the girl's mother beckoned her and the girl obeyed, scooped up into her mother's arms. She continued to gaze at the bicycle, pointing toward it and babbling excitedly.
The mother caught my eyes. "Sorry about that," she said with some hint of an accent, "She is in love with your bicycle."
I smiled in response. I understood perfectly.
"Come on, let's go," the mother said to her daughter, who waved her arms and squealed with unencumbered joy, her eyes still fixed on the two wheels.
And I wondered if the girl knew, if the girl could feel the energy waiting in the chain, if she could feel the ecstasy of sunkissed skin and windswept hair, if the bicycle whispered to her the same promises of galloping freedom that it whispers to me. I wondered if the girl had been likewise enchanted. I wondered if one day she would mount her own two wheels, and I wondered if when she did, she'd immediately know its language because it spoke to her once in a time when the world was still forming and all things were still possible.
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1 comment:
I once knew three little girls who also happily rode on the back seat of a blue Volvo station wagon. One became a surfer, the other became a x-country runner and the third became an avid bike rider. One has to wonder whether the bike rider girl used to watch her Dad's bikes, hanging from the garage ceiling, or whether she watched him as he tinkered with his bike or, whether she used to hear him walking around the house, after a long ride, his bike shoes clopping on the hard wood floor. Was this her inspiration for now flying her bike past L.A.'s grubby streets?
Liz, maybe some day this girl will be riding her bike in the Olympics and, as she crosses the finish line, she may remember the first time she saw your pink steed. Keep on inspiring...
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