The Purple Bike

Elyse Rothman

       It looked huge back then - huge and shiny and purple and wonderful.  It hung there, upside-down in the store, so that if I were to stand directly under it and look up, I wouldn’t be able see the wheels.

       The man at the store took a smaller version of it off a rack and placed it on the floor next to me.  He held it steady as I got on.  It was the perfect size. “We’ll take it!” my father said, “We’ll come back next week to pick it up.”

       I was six and three quarters years old.  I was getting my first bike.

-- ~ --

       As the day we were supposed to pick up the bike came closer, I started to get more and more nervous.  I didn’t know how to ride a bike.  I had never ridden one before, not even one with training wheels, and this one, this one was a big kid bike, this one was a two-wheeler.

       When we were about to leave on the day we were going to pick up the bike, I dropped down on the floor and cried.

       “I DON WANNA BIKE!!!!!!!!!” I slurred the words between my tears. “I CHANGE MA MIND! I DON WANIT! I DON WANIT!”

       My parents were confused.  They couldn’t understand what I was crying about.  Just the day before I had wanted a bike more than anything,

-- ~ --

       I remember trying over and over again to make it all the way around an outdoor running track on my bike.  I would pedal and my mom or dad would walk in front of me encouraging me to keep pedaling, encouraging me to keep moving forward.  But I wouldn’t.  Every time I pedaled the bike would move.  Every time the bike moved I would get frightened. Every time I would get frightened I would stop pedaling.  Every time I stopped pedaling the bike would wobble and topple over.  And every time the bike wobbled and toppled over, I would get hurt.

       I needed to find a way to learn how to ride a bike without getting scared every time the vehicle moved, and soon I found a way.

       I had a basket attached to the handles of the bicycle.  I would put Spike, a purple stegosaurus, my favorite stuffed animal, in the basket and we would ride the purple bike together.  It was easier to learn how to ride with Spike there learning with me.  If Spike was not scared when the bike moved, then I had no reason to be frightened either.

       By my seventh birthday that May, Spike and I had been successful in riding the bike completely around the outdoor track. 

*** ~**** ~ ***

       I came home from school after a rather difficult algebra test. Ida, our housekeeper, was cleaning the house, as she always did on Tuesdays.  I stood next to Ida as she dusted; she was always so interesting to talk to, she could tell the most amazing stories, and I always loved hearing about her family.  “My great-granddaughter,” she said, “she’s getting so big, and you should see her! She’s almost seven now, growing up so fast!  She wants a bike for her birthday.  A big kid bike with two wheels, but her parents don’t think they can get her one.  They cost a lot of money, you know.”

-- ~ --

       I thought of the little, purple bike.  I thought of how hard it was, and how long it took for Spike and me to finally learn how to ride it.  I thought of the feeling of victory we had every time we went forward on the bike without falling, even if it was only for a short distance.  I thought about how great it felt the first time Spike and I made it all the way around the track.  I thought of the times we weren’t successful.  I thought of the times Spike and I toppled over with the bike.  I thought of the scrapes, the bruises.  I thought of all the ointment and Band-Aids that my parents had to place on me.  I thought of all those Band-Aids I had placed on Spike, over his various invisible wounds.

       I thought of the little, purple bike.  The one that now sat in the garage, covered in dust, basket empty.  I had gotten a new blue bike a few years ago.  It was an adult bike.  Shiny and blue, with gears and two handle breaks.  I thought of the big, blue bike, and how when I brought it home, the little purple bike was put aside, ignored, and almost forgotten.

-- ~ --

       “I have a bike for her,” I announced to Ida. “For your great- granddaughter.  A bike. I have one.  It’s purple.  Probably about her size. A big kid bike. A two- wheeler. It has a basket, too.  It’s really nice.”  I paused and looked up.  Ida was smiling.

       “The tires need to be pumped.” I added, “And the brake should probably be checked, but it should work.  It’s a great bike.  It’s the one I learned how to ride on.  You can take it for her if you want.”

       Spike and I watched Ida load the purple bike into her car.  I squeezed Spike, feeling awfully silly hugging a stuffed animal at fifteen.

       When she left, Spike and I went downstairs and into the garage.  We stood there for a while, staring at the empty space, where only moments ago our little purple bike had been.