Maybe no one forgets their first bicycle and there is no exception to a woman like me. Mine was a Schwinn coaster bike, second-hand, painted a distinctive red and yellow by its previous owner. I remember riding too fast down the big hill on Springfield Avenue. I knew at once that the world was mine to explore.
A couple of years later, when I was 11, my grandmother visited from England, bringing me a bike. It was a shiny dark green, with three gears (齿轮) and hand brakes. As the owner of the first English bicycle my neighbors and classmates had ever seen, I was, for a time, almost a star.
Unlike my coaster bike, it was light and responsive - riding it felt like flying. I rode it past big stone houses with their huge yards and trees. I rode past brick row houses. I rode alone and with groups of friends.
That beloved bike went with me to college, carrying me to the library and to classes. Beyond transport, it was often a prop (道具): pushing it along as I walked the college paths made me feel less self-conscious. Somehow, conversations flowed more easily on either side of a bike.
After college, I lived abroad for a time. Returning from London, I discovered to my horror that my parents had sold my bike. For years after that, I didn't have a bicycle that was specifically mine. But after a while I missed riding. Eventually, on a fall day, I bought a bicycle with wider tires than my old bike and seven gears.
Still, I was a bit apprehensive. I was out of practice and a lot older. I brought the bike home and put on my helmet - I'd never worn a helmet before. Then I got on the bike. After a hesitant, slightly shaky start, I felt exactly as I was on that long-ago day on Springfield Avenue: free. Soon I was riding along. It seemed that everyone I passed smiled and waved or called out, great day for a bike ride! And I knew they all remembered their first bike and how it had set them free. I wanted to call back to them, "I still can!"
