Freedom

Excitement filled me to the brim as I peered at the long rectangle box – a mystical surprise awaiting my little nine-year-old self.

My dad struggled as he pulled the box out of the car. I wondered what would hit the driveway first, the box or him. He had a look about him when our eyes met that told me what was inside the box was mine.

He quickly opened the carton and all the parts came tumbling out, a wheel then another.

 I gasped, “My very own bike!” 

One by one, dad carefully assembled each part, in what seemed like a forever moment. Suddenly, it turned into a state-of-the-art blue and white bicycle with wide handlebars – ready to ride.

My dad never complained, steadying the bike with calloused hands while I learned to balance. The lawn served as a cushion many times as I tried and failed. I mastered the brakes by back peddling. I stood, alternating pressing down each pedal one by one, until I went faster. It slowly became a part of me.

I practiced each day on my driveway until I gained speed down its sloped blacktop, landing on the street with confidence. I stood up tall to push down the pedals to keep riding my bicycle down the street. The drive to practice to master riding my bike was creating the freedom I desired.

I rode all day, every day, and came home hungry when the street lights came on. The heat of the Illinois summer afternoons did not slow me down. I felt the strong wind in my face, cooling me down the faster I went. Sometimes I rode alone and other times, my friends joined me. It didn’t matter because my bike was my new fun playmate.

One day, I found myself looking up a huge mound I discovered at Newcastle Park; it dared me to ride up the hill. I stood at the foothill at what appeared to be a sky-high summit and took no time to decide I was ready for the challenge. With my knuckles firmly planted around the handlebars, I pedaled straight up.

My legs ached, tired as my heart pounded faster and faster as I trekked up the bumpy dirt hill. Everything was getting smaller and smaller as I climbed. It took all I had to reach the top. I made it! I gazed at the breathtaking view surrounding me and the bright blue skies above me. I was on the top of the world.

“Come down!” My friends were jumping up and down, waving at me.

My heart sank realizing how high the summit was! I thought: what goes up, must come down. I started to panic. I looked around at my options; each side of the hill seemed unsettling so I picked one, jumped on my bike, and gained speed going down.

“Slow down!” Onlookers shouted loudly trying to get my attention.

“This is fun!” I yelled as I flew down with record speed. My heart was in my throat. My bike barely touched the ground, lifting me up in the air, flying at warp speed. I was excited and petrified all at once.

Suddenly, the embedded rock path vibrated the bike causing it to wobble, landing hard in the dirt. I laid there immobilized staring up at the sky. Is this what it feels like to die? The kids from the playground started to gather around me wondering if I was breathing.

“Are you okay?” My friend Terri looked worried.

“Yes!” I answered, spitting out dirt. 

I managed to get up and was grateful to find no broken bones. I wiped the dirt from my mouth with my sleeve and sat down to catch my breath. Little gravel embedded my knees, both covered in blood. There were scratches on my arms and bruised on my elbows but I glanced over to see something much worse.

My sturdy handlebars were mangled and bent to one side. My bike was busted! I sat on the ground sobbing. I was broken hearted.

“I’ll take you to my house,” my friend consoled me. “We’ll clean you up there.”

“My mom is going to kill me!”

Awkwardly, limping down the street, I thought: I can’t imagine being without my bike! 

Terri’s mother cleaned my wounds and bandaged my scrapes and cuts. It was time to go home.

Hoping no one would see me, I hid my bike in the garage and tiptoed through the back door. Surprisingly, everyone was busy getting supper on the table and didn’t notice me coming home. They weren’t aware of my successful conquest of the summit or worried if I made it down the hill safe, I guess. 

Apparently, my dad noticed my bike sitting in the garage broken. He fixed it without asking any questions. He didn’t care so I didn’t care. I thought: sometimes this happens to brave riders on their gutsy adventures. It was time to jump back on my bike again.

What a surprise it was when I realized this moment of fearlessness birthed my sense of adventure, inspiring me to live abundantly.