My father's bike sat undisturbed in the garage. Its red metal gleaming in the evening light, as if it was lonely; begging to be ridden. He didn't ride it anymore because he hurt his leg in the war. He promised it would be mine when I grew into it. However, that would take forever. I put my bike in its proper place in the garage and stood there staring at dad's bike. I stepped closer and rubbed my hand along the seat then gripped the handlebars. I wasn't tall enough to get my leg over the bar, but there was a milk crate in the corner. I grabbed it, climbed up and stretched my leg over pressing my feet against the middle bar until I could reach the seat. I held on to some nearby boxes and let my legs dangle from the seat. If I arched my foot, just right I could hit the pedal and make it spin.
I propped my leg against the boxes so I could put my hands on the handle bars. My small arms barely reached, but it was good enough for the garage. I closed my eyes and imagined riding down the alley towards the park. I waved to my friends as I passed by and they followed on their bikes. I pedaled my heart out, speeding away until their screams became whispers; their faces turned to blurs, and faded into the horizon. The park was a short distance from the neighborhood and all the kids rode there. There was a lake on the far end of the park with a picnic table. I could prop the bike up there and get off. I had a half loaf of stale bread with me and to feed the ducks, as the other riders passed by giggling and laughing among themselves. Soon, my friends would catch up and we could feed the ducks together and watch the sun dance just above the water. I wonder what happens when it touches the water. Does it burns out like fire? is this what happens when the night comes?
"Ollie!" called his mother
"Yes, Mom?" I replied
"Supper" she replied
"I'll be right there"