It was one of those days when we were caricatures of ourselves. On a hot afternoon, my husband and I waited in line for coffee at our favorite little locally owned coffee shop. As we age, our coffee orders get more and more pretentious: Now we throw in “oat milk” or “half sweet” or “do you have a light roast?” at the barista, hoping she’ll notice that her customers are truly discerning coffee consumers. (She never seems impressed.)
Anyway, we’re ordering our pretentious drinks when I see my husband carefully punching in his card number on his phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“I just ordered e-bikes for us,” is the reply.
I was mad. After 30 years of marriage, didn’t he know our rule about not making purchases over $100 without asking each other first? I would’ve definitely said no. We absolutely do not need e-bikes.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s why he didn’t ask me.
I steamed silently for about five days, until two boxes arrived on our doorstep.
But I can’t stay mad for long. My husband springs into action when there is something to be unboxed and assembled. He whips out his Swiss Army knife, expertly cuts open the boxes, takes out the directions, and begins giving them the old once-over. He tests the seats, makes sure the tires are filled with air and properly aligned, and clears a dedicated spot in the garage. His enthusiasm is contagious, so I follow him to the garage, where he shows me how to charge the battery, turn it on, and adjust the speed. I am intrigued.
I know I’m going to out myself by saying this, but … I’ve never worn a helmet before. Before you judge me, remember that I am a child of the 80s. I was singing along to Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” and “Papa Don’t Preach” when I was waaaaaay too young to understand what I was singing about. We passed candy cigarettes around at recess in elementary school. My brothers and I played with our own set of lawn darts — and lived to tell the tale.
But I’m not a kid anymore. So for the first time, we have helmets and lights on our bikes. We are responsible grown-ups, riding bicycles for noble reasons, like reducing our carbon footprint and getting reasonable exercise.
Except.
The first time I hop on that bike, it feels like a time machine. Whoosh! I’m transported back to 1986, when I used to ride my big brother’s BMX dirtbike, gold with black grips on the handlebars. I feel the vibrations of the tire treads on the pavement. On the surface I may be a perimenopausal woman who has a tendency to overload on carbs, but inside, I’m 12 years old again.
“What do you think?” asks my husband.
I keep my emotions in check. To him, I say, “Yeah, it’s okay.” Unfazed, like a cool kid.
For the next few nights, we hop on our bikes and go for nighttime rides. We try bike paths, side streets, and explore neighborhoods where we see families inside their warmly lit houses, going about their evening rituals. We sail silently through parks, occasionally coming across gaggles of early teen boys, who are riding bikes that look exactly like ours. They can’t help but heckle us.
“Look, it’s a bike gang,” sneers one boy from under his mop of curls. His friends snicker as we whiz by.
“Hey, can you do wheelies on that thing?” calls another boy.
“Yeah,” I yell back. “I just did one. You missed it.”
I’m wearing my sensible sneakers, helmet strapped firmly beneath my chin, and it’s all I can do not to kick out my legs from the pedals and squeal “wheeee” as we speed down the street. Freddie Mercury wails at the top of his lungs in my mind. I am, after all, a child of the 80s:
I want to ride my bicycle/I want to ride my bike.
I want to ride my bicycle/I want to ride it where I like …
