Bike Riding Days: A Narrative

Submitted By
Heather Rollins

I wish I could take myself back to a time when my father and I got along perfectly. It was during those bike riding days that dad and I could talk to each other; it was then that Dad was one of my best friends. The day he taught me how to ride that little purple bike sits in my memory like it was yesterday. I can still see him crouched in the grass beside the gravel driveway, snapping my picture as I whizzed by on the new bike he'd bought me. I was four years old and didn't have a worry in the world.

The weather was beautiful that day. I woke up to vivid orange light filtering through my peach-colored shades, leaving dim and shadowed lines across my bed and bedroom floor. The smell of pancakes and sizzling bacon wafted into my bedroom, but I was too lazy to budge from my warm, comfortable water bed. Finally, when AC/DC came blasting from my father's massive stereo speakers in the living room, I lurched to full consciousness. Dad loved AC/DC; therefore, I adored them too. "Back in Black" was blaring again; it was our favorite song.

It wasn't just "Back in Black" that brought my father and me so close back then. In those days he called me Heather Bugs. We played softball in the front yard for hours on end, he taught me to mow the lawn, and helped to improve my tree fort. It seemed as if he had all the time in the world to spend with me. We loved each other's company and could always have fun together no matter what we were doing.

When my mother finally bounded into my room to wake me, she was radiant and full of energy. I could sense something special was planned for the day. I crawled over the edge of my bed and followed my mother out of my room and down the hall. "Back in Black" was still blaring, getting louder as I entered the living room. Laughing at my dad as he bopped to the music in the kitchen, I plopped down in a kitchen chair and waited for my breakfast. Watching my father was amusing for many reasons. First of all, he absolutely had no rhythm whatsoever. He looked ridiculous! Second, his hair stood on end in the morning just like Alfalfa from the Rugrats movie. Last of all, he was in an unusually good mood, which was a little atypical of my father because he normally didn't show this much expression. I wondered what the deal was as he flipped a pancake into the air and landed it perfectly in the pan. Finally, he sailed a plate full of bacon and a pancake onto the place mat in front of me. "Here you go, Heather Bugs!"

After breakfast, my mom, dad, sister and I piled into my parents' old black Buick. I thought we were going to do something extraordinary that day, but instead we seemed to be headed for Grandpa Rudy's house. My spirits dropped a little because I really wasn't too fond of watching Grandpa smoke cigarette after cigarette in his big, ugly, yellow chair at the kitchen table.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Dad could tell that my sister and I were dreading the trip. To help lighten the mood he began to swerve all over the winding road to make us laugh and screech in contentment. We clunked up the long gravel driveway to Grandpa's house and jolted into our usual parking spot right next to a big pine tree. My grandfather met us at the door and we all filed into the cloudy smoke pit of a kitchen.

While my parents chattered away about the latest news - my grandpa's surgery, the new paint for the house, and his corn crop - my sister and I slipped out the back screen door, hung a right towards the blackberry bushes and around a huge oak tree. Safely out of Mom and Dad's sight, we climbed through the barbed-wire fence that separated my grandpa's yard from the neighbor's cow pasture and began picking and cramming blackberries into our mouths. We decided that it would be a fantastic idea to bring some of the delicious berries home with us to eat, so we crossed back onto Grandpa's property and dashed through the back door of the garage in search of a bucket. What we found instead was a brand new purple bike with training wheels, sitting next to Grandpa's brown Chrysler. We couldn't figure out whose it could be, so after pondering this for a few minutes, we rushed inside to ask if we could just take it for a quick ride. Although neither of us had ever tried to ride a bicycle, we figured it was worth a try to ask. As soon as we bounded through the back door and into the kitchen, my parents knew we had seen the bike. They smiled sly smiles at each other as if it was funny to watch us stand there in anticipation. "It's all yours!" Dad exclaimed. With that, my sister and I ran back to the garage in order to drag the bike out to the driveway. Dad met us outside; he was going to teach us to ride.

When we reached my grandpa's driveway, I began to get nervous. What if I fell? Dad could clearly see that I was scared and told me not to worry. He'd hold onto the bike seat to keep me sturdy until I was ready to ride on my own. As I pedaled up and down the gravel driveway with my dad holding the back of my seat, I began to feel stable. I think that he noticed this because without my consent, Dad let go of the seat, sending me flying down the driveway and into the ditch beside the drive. I escaped my first bike wreck with no injuries, but I was so angry at my father that I stomped back towards the house. I didn't want anything to do with him at that moment, but when I heard him begin to laugh behind me, I spun around and ran back to the bike. I was not a quitter! Before I mounted the bike, he called out, "Hold on, sweetie! Let me get the camera!" He dashed inside, grabbed the camera, and ran down to the end of the driveway and crouched in the grass next to the gravel drive. Carefully, I swung one leg over the seat, sat down and settled one foot on a pedal as I balanced myself on the bike. Silently, I counted to 5, put my other foot on the other pedal and started pedaling. As I rocketed down the driveway, I could feel the bike sway left and then right. The gravel felt like slippery ice beneath the bike's tires. I remember the bike sliding from underneath me and just before the crash, the flash from the camera and Dad yelling, "You did it!"

The next thing I knew, I was lying in the ditch next to the driveway, bawling my head off. My knees, hands, and elbows were bleeding. "You should have seen the look on your face before you fell, Heather Bugs," Dad said, and I began to laugh through my tears. He picked me up off the gravel and we walked hand-in-hand to the house. I don't think we have ever been closer.

My bike now hangs from nails in the garage ceiling at my parent's house, a constant reminder of those good old father-daughter days. Days when Dad and I rocked out to "Back in Black" and days when he flipped pancakes almost to the ceiling in the morning. That was before I grew up, or maybe he grew up, or it's possible that we just grew apart. Sometimes I wonder if he wants his little girl back.

Today those father-daughter days feel sacred, and that first bike wreck seems like nothing more than a mosquito bite. I'm not as close with my father anymore, but I've grown up. I'm married now with responsibilities, work, and school. Dad and I have an understanding though; I visit home every few months and it's great. Every once and a while when I'm back with my family, we toss an AC/DC CD into the stereo and play darts just for kicks. Looking back at those "Bike Riding Days" makes me feel grateful and I hope that someday I'll be able to share such sacred days with my own children.