The Bicycle

Amruta Srinivasan

“I have had the most exhausting day,” Edith exclaimed, as she tossed her handbag to the side and threw her coat across a lonely ottoman, which was inches away from the coat hanger. She collapsed on the grey velvet chaise, a piece of furniture left from the days of yore, tossing her legs dramatically across the back rest. 

Artie looked up from his newspaper, and his eyes narrowed when he saw the misplaced coat. “Edith! Put your coat somewhere sensible, like the coat rack. Which is barely a foot away from you,” he grumbled, shuffling over to the fallen coat. 

“Oh, don’t be such a fusspot, Artie. You worry too much. All day, you’re just worry, worry, worry. Worry. That’s a strange word, isn’t it? Doesn’t it sound faintly Greek?” Edith tilted her head. “Wo-rry. Worr-y. Woooorry,” She sounded out the word, her eyebrows dancing around with each pronunciation.

Artie sighed and rested his forehead on the coat rack. He used all his willpower to resist banging his head against the wall.

“Worrrr—hey! You got me off topic!” Edith realized, snapping her head up. “What was I going to say?”

“You tell me, Edith.”

“Huh. Right! Artie, have I ever told you just how much I loathe small children on bikes? If I haven’t, just know this. If I have, here it is again: I loathe small children on bikes. Loathe. Huh. That’s a strange word too. Loooooathe. Loooooooooooooathe. Isn’t it funny how the strangest words are always negative?”

“Do you loathe bikes or small children more?” Artie quickly asked, in an attempt to prevent another “monologue” from Edith.

“It all depends on the weather, Artie,” Edith replied coolly. “You should know this!”

Artie shook his head, exasperated. He might as well just get it over with. “What happened today? And let me guess: does it involve children and bikes?”

“It does, in fact, involve both children and bikes. It’s a rather sad story too, but I shall tell it anyway.” Edith arose from the armchair with a flourish, and began to re

count her tragic tale.

***

The bike had bright, glitter streamers and a basket in front of the handlebars. It caught Edith’s eye almost immediately. As the streamers danced in the breeze, Edith remembered yet another bicycle from years ago, a sunshine yellow bike with the most adorable basket there could be. Her Uncle Sylvester had found it at a garage sale many moons ago and rescued it from an eternal fate with the dusty knick knacks and stacks of old newspapers. Edith’s fingers brushed over the bike’s handlebars tentatively, and she was suddenly eight years old, riding a bicycle much too big for her. Now, she was biking through the woods near her home, laughing as the cold winter wind stung her face. She was nine years old now, and almost tall enough for the bike. She was biking to the county fair, carrying her picnic sandwiches in the front basket of the bike. It was late July, and the dry grass crunched underneath the wheels of her bicycle. Now, Edith was ten years old, riding the bike to her first day of the fifth grade. She was eleven, twelve, thirteen, and much too quickly she was fourteen, sitting down on a wobbly plastic chair and watching some upstart ten year old buy her bike from the garage sale. You don’t need this anymore, Mom had said. Grow up a little, Edith. Edith snatched her hand away from the bike and shook her head. She stepped back. Should she ride the bike? It probably did belong to somebody, and it was most likely a felony in some state to steal a bike. But, on the other hand, the bike had been there for much too long, and it was looking at her with the most pitiful eyes. On the third hand, did bikes even have eyes? I’d better make a decision soon, Edith thought, or I’ll run out of hands. She paused and looked around rapidly. The coast was clear. No one was at the park; no one was there to watch her potentially commit a crime. And the bike was so close to her, beckoning with those shiny handlebars and pedals and whatever else a bike was made up of. Edith’s feet moved without her permission. Slowly, slowly…then suddenly she was full-on sprinting towards that glorious, beautiful, double-wheeled, pedaling contraption. It’s been some time, Edith thought, since I’ve been on one of these. It shouldn’t be too hard, should it? After all, wasn’t bike riding something that you always remember? Like swimming, or addition. She finally reached the bike, grasping its lovely handles in her palms. She tossed one leg over the side, feeling the wonderful pedals beneath her feet. The bike was made for her; she was sure of it. And what was that it was saying? It was telling her to ride it! Edith pushed off and attempted the first peddle. She tottered dangerously on the bike, gripping a nearby tree to regain her balance. Well, I can still do this! (To be continued...)