The Bicycle

When I was 12 years old, I was quite envious of my sister's new bicycle. It was one of those fancy new 10-speeds. It had low riding handle bars that curled down and around like a mountain ram's horn. It was red. And it had the number 10 blazoned down the frame to let the world (especially me) know just how fast it could go.

I loved that bike. I wanted that bike. I needed that bike. But it looked expensive, so I kept my mouth firmly shut around my parents. I was pretty sure they would be broke after buying a bike like that.

A couple of weeks later, I returned home from school to find my mom and dad smiling quite a bit more than usual. I could sense something was going on, but having the attention span of a 12-year-old, I put it out of my mind.

Dad then asked me to go get his coffee cup for him out of the garage. With an arrogance that can only be displayed by a preteen, I rolled my eyes inward and resigned myself to one of the mundane tasks that parents ask their children to do.

I ran out to the back door to the garage, and flung open the screen door.  That's when I saw the bicycle.

However, this bicycle wasn't the subject of my previous envy. This bike was black. It had ram-horn shaped handle bars. It was new. It had 10 speeds.

IT WAS FOR ME!

I wish every kid in the world could have the opportunity to feel the joy I felt that day. My parents rocked!

I miss you dad. Thanks for the awesome bike, and the awesome life.

Submitted by: Liesa Evans, Daughter