When I had saved enough money to buy a bike, I wanted a mountain bike. I grew up in Marin, home of off-road cycling, and trail bikes were all the rage. I ended up with a cheesy Schwinn imitation of a mountain bike, red with hideous white handlebar grips and brake lines, the kind that turned very dirty with use. I had to wear a red and white bike helmet that made me look like a gigantic toadstool. Glamorous I was not. I had that bike for years and eventually I left it at my boyfriend’s cousin’s apartment where it disappeared. My dad, Pat, never let me forget it.
If my dad owned a bike store, this could be the sign. My first bike was a Schwinn, and lord was it ugly. I didn’t get my very first bike until I was pretty old. I’m a middle child and I got lost in the sauce there. I didn’t even know how to ride a bike until I was in the 4th grade. No one taught me how, I had to figure it out on my own, and when I finally did, nobody even noticed that I had finally gotten around to it. My mom drove right past me in her car when I was on my inaugural ride around the block on my little sisters bike. I saw her and then my knees hit the handlebars because my legs were too long, causing me to fall and sprain my wrist.