I WANT TO RIDE MY BICYCLE (i want to ride my bike)

Picture this:
A throw-back Schwinn.
Magenta.
Hollywood Edition.
Basket up front.
"S" for "Sarah" (alright, "Schwinn") stitched into the fatty seat.

Love it!
LOVE. IT.

This is my new obsession, purchased off of Craigslist from a graduating U-Penn student. I imagine riding this bike with a nice flowy skirt and the basket filled with flowers and fresh produce.

I feel like a little girl, all pig-tails and streamers and pink, pink, PINK!
Unfortunately, I also have the confidence of a 10-year-old, as I haven't rode a bike in years.

The last bike I owned was swiped off of the back-porch of my hillside home in college. I saw a hobo riding it weeks later with the tires still as flat as I'd let them become.

But not this time.
Oh no.

I have yet to ride it farther than one block.
See, the thing is, the brakes (which are back pedal) aren't working. Quack found this out when he took it on a test drive down a little hill. He had to use the soles of his shoes to come to a screeching halt.
"When I was a kid, I was really good at going fast, but not good at braking," he said. "I liked to bail instead."
"Just jump off?" I asked.
"Yeah. You know, I just let it slam into the garage door."

Seeing as how I have no garage door, I guess I'm going to have to get the brakes fixed.
Which is okay by me. Because to honest, I need a little time to warm up to it.
I walked it up to the air pump at the neighborhood gas station, and walked it back. Soon I will get the chrome polish out and make sure she's a-shining.

I am still debating about a helmet.

This whole bike thing takes me back to what I remember to be my 10th birthday.
I had just lost my first tooth (while eating vanilla ice cream of all things) and my folks bought me my first "big-kid" bike.

It was in the garage with a bow on it.
A red street racer with handles that curled like a ram's horns.
Slight frame.
10-speed.
FAST!

My mom says she'll race me around the block (which if you know my mom is terribly out of character for her.)
She gets on her mom bike (much like the magenta Hollywood Edition, I might add).
We set off around the block, riding with helmets IN the road (for the first time in my life).
We round the corner and my house comes back into sight. I see that my father has used side-walk chalk to make a great finish line in the road.
I decide to see what this little mama is made of. I start pushing the pedals faster.
I'm cruisin' and the gears are click, clicking against my sneakered feet.
I figure my Ma will let me win, but I guess when you ride a "big-kids" bike, your Ma doesn't just let you win anymore.
I see that she's gaining on me (and on her 1-speed, fat-seated mom bike!)
I'm standing (sprinting if you will).
I'm closing in in the chalky line drawn into the roadway from the base of our driveway.
50 feet,
20 feet,
12 feet.

I can still remember my dad smiling near the line, beaming as his girl is sailing in.
And then, oh yeah - you saw it coming -

CRAAAAAAAAAAAAASH!

I fall hard and swiftly onto my left side. My ankle, knee, hip, elbow, shoulder and face is tenderized by the black-top.

Dad sprints from the finish line. Mom bails off her bike (strangely a skill she and Quack have in common.)

I am a screaming mess. It hurt, but I cry mostly for the ruined finish on my apple-red bike.

I walk the bike across the finish line, with dad and mom (and mom's bike) in tow.

I push the racer into the garage, hang the helmet on the ram's horn handles and don't touch it for the rest of the summer.

Let hope things are different with the Hollywood's maiden voyage...
I'll let you know how it goes.