Summertime

One of the best things about riding a bike is that for a few lovely minutes, I am 11 years-old again. Oh, not the gawky, awkward, self-conscious 11 year-old. But the freckly-faced 11 year-old that received a slightly used blue and silver one-speed, coaster brake equipped beauty for my birthday. The 11 year-old who was terrified to ride down the Pine Street hill, but could ride up the same hill - no problem. I feel the breeze in my hair, I remember riding “no hands” and learning to peddle like crazy so that for a few glorious minutes I could put my feet up on the handlebar. That first taste of freedom that a bicycle brought. The first taste of what it might be like to be “grown up” and able to go where I wanted, independently, and f-a-s-t.

It’s only a lovely few minutes, though. Then my _ _ - something body reminds me that there isn’t much fear of how fast I can manage to go downhill, it’s fear of just how slow I might go uphill! But, still…for those minutes, it’s the summertime of youth, and I hear a popsicle calling my name.

Why did the summer days of childhood never seem as hot? I don’t remember ever thinking that it was too hot to ride my bike, go down to the park for crafts and activities, or play with neighborhood friends. I don’t recall heat as an excuse to avoid the 1+ mile walk from home to the nearest city swimming pool. I remember eating supper in the basement, because it was the coolest spot in the house, and watching the water bead up on metal glasses holding icy cold tea.

Summer was clean sheets that smelled like sunshine, Noxzema on sunburned shoulders, a trip to the zoo, Sunday picnics, and my brothers digging a hole to China in the backyard.

Is summer still summer? Have I changed or has the taste of summer changed? Or is it the pace of summer that has changed? I don’t know. But for today, I only need Lil’ Red and a few minutes on the road to take me back. Back home.