Photo by Afta Putta Gunawan on Pexels.com
My first bike
Was a neighbor’s bike.
“Too many hills,” my mom had said
As if topography in any way diminished
The accelerated thrill
Of legs off pedals
From the top of the rise
To our street.
There was no arguing
Or vowing to share and never fight.
We knew her words were code
For “we cannot afford.”
But my sister’s friend across the street
Did have a bike
And with it the absolute power to dispense
Rides, routes, direction, and duration.
There were no training wheels
To ease one in.
There was no question of admitting
Complete lack of experience
And risking an evaporated offer.
So it was guts and trepidation
A stranglehold on the handlebar
And the utter exhilaration
Of flying.
For Cee’s Share Your World Challenge
Na'ama Yehuda 
HOORAY!!! TS
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yeah, it was either hooray or a change of clothing … 😉
LikeLike
Oh, I love this poem. Charming….
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you! 🙂
LikeLike
I loved your memory of this! Just yesterday I recalled how my grandmother brought us up to Maine and rented bikes for my cousin and me so we could ride to the lake when we were 15. Such freedom! I never had a bike of my own as a kid. I’m glad you had access to one too!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Access is a bit of a big word… but this was the only way we got to ride… so it was better than none!
LikeLiked by 1 person