Mind In Gutter


Learning To Ride

I had a little bike with a bar across the top, not like the ones where the bar is cut low; those are called girl bikes while the top bar ones are called boy bikes. I wonder why they distinguish bikes that way, it’s obvious that neither is sexual, although looking at the bikes of these days they are adding more curves to the ones they call girl bikes. Could it be those who make the bikes think we need something special to tell bikes apart? (Maybe this is something that needs to be studied, like so many other useful paid studies that are done in this world.) I figure whatever bike a child likes it doesn’t matter what sex as long as they love to ride it. These words could be taken out of context, if one’s mind is in the gutter. OOPS.

Up to the top of the hill my 2 brothers and I trekked on Lone Tree Rd., on a lovely sunny day, to teach me how to ride going downhill. We lived in Palermo, CA just to the right at the bottom of the hill. They held the bike while I began and down the hill I went: not knowing how to stop. My feet went down and my crouch stopped, on the bar across the top, and so did the bike. That was a painful lesson to learn, as I also had spots of blood from the tender layered skin. I don’t remember ever riding that hill again, but I do remember how I felt when I took out the trash, going out the front door rather than the back, carrying the trash on my bike as I rode around the drive to the back, where I went to take the trash. I felt like an accomplished bike rider, even when doing chores I had fun. 

What little children feel when we are young is something many don’t share when growing up. When they get older, more matured, ripened with age, they love to share the life they once lived, showing the ups and downs are not that bad, providing we don’t become mass murders, rapist and such. 

About billiescauldron

I am in transition. I see myself as a Spiritual Writer and as such my blog will slowly change with me still holding tight to being in the garden as a child loving my teacher.
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