"Bicyle...BICYCLE. I Want to Ride My Bicyle; I Want to Ride My Bike...." (Thank you, Queen.)

My bicycle sits in the spare bedroom of my house, the bedroom that my mother keeps trying to turn into a baby nursery. But there it sits, out of the weather, unbothered by nature, the fluctuating Louisiana temperatures, and the guy who stole my last bicycle right off my front porch. I’m sure it was a guy. I don’t have proof, but girls are the only ones who understand that bicycles are the mother ship of all that is pure and good. Riding a bicycle is the equivalent of flying a kite, roller-skating, or eating ice cream. They remind you of the little girl that lurks beneath the surface of your adult pretense. Every girl in the world is aware of this fact, which is why a girl would never steal a bicycle.

I’m saving up fifteen dollars to have the professionals repair the inner tubes. I used to keep my bicycle on the front port, but the tsunami-esque rainfalls made their way into the tires, rendering the bicycle unusable. I discovered this tragedy the last time I rode. I was so busy daydreaming that I wasn’t aware of the fact that pedaling had become twelve times harder than the previous time until I had biked a couple of miles. My friend Amy laughingly pointed it out to me from behind. The ride home was treacherous, but a nice lady who was in her yard gave me some free air, which made riding more bearable for at least a half-mile or more, enough time to firm up the noodles that my legs had become.

Taking the bicycle out again will be a turning point in my life. I long for that day. By then, perhaps, Cody will have bought his bicycle. In the meantime, I’ll be telling him of the wonder and magic of owning a bicycle. But I think I’ll leave out the part about the little girl lurking beneath the surface.