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By Trevor Scott
Every day the old man sat in a rocking chair near the front window of his
aged house and watched the boy ride his bike. It seemed to the man such an
inspired symmetry, bicycle and boy, moving effortlessly up and down the street.
At times the boy raced much faster than his mother would have wished, weaving
around parked cars and jumping off of and onto curbs, but the old man rarely saw
him fall, gravity incapable of snatching him from atop his friend and his steed,
the bicycle. On those occasions when the boy did crash, gravity’s victory was
fleeting, a lone battle won amongst so many lost.
Though scraped and bruised, the boy took no notice of his own wounds, instead
turning his attention to his fallen partner with such a look of concern in his
young eyes that the old man wondered if a boy and a bicycle could be brothers.
After several moments of careful inspection, the two were up again, worry and
pain erased by a few strokes of the pedal. A cowboy and his horse, a pilot and
his fighter, a captain and his ship, the boy and his bicycle tore new avenues
all throughout the neighborhood, never tiring of their endless quest to ride.
Hours passed, days came and went, and still the boy rode. Familiar now with
the old man who watched him from the window of that aged house, the boy would
wave to him, sometimes with two hands to show that he could ride without them.
When the old man waved back he caught sight of his withered hand in the light of
the window, and something twinged in his heart. Was he once so young? Had he
ever felt so free? At what point had he forsaken his own bicycle, of so many
years ago, first for a car, and now for this pitiful rocking chair? The old man
stood, a new pang in his heart, a sharp pain in his chest, and he hurried as
best he could for the door, leaving the chair to rock no more.
He stepped into his garage, sensing that time was running out with each beat
of his stalling heart. Straight to the back corner, behind the car, and there it
was. Buried beneath cardboard boxes and dirty rags that hadn’t been touched in
decades was a long lost companion, his neglected old bike, still standing
faithfully, eagerly waiting to again fulfill its purpose. The old man cursed
himself for having been so disloyal to such a loyal friend. In a frenzy that
matched in intensity the palpitations of his heaving heart, the man tore loose
the bicycle from its prison of junk and without another thought, he climbed onto
the saddle and started down the driveway.
The act was so natural and familiar that the man felt as though he’d ridden
each day for the last seventy years, or perhaps that the last seventy years had
never happened, and he was still only a boy doing what boys do, riding his
bicycle because it freed his soul. As he pedaled down the street in defiance of
the wrenching in his heart, he caught sight of the boy, smiling and waving,
oblivious to the world outside of himself and the funny old man from the window.
‘Round and around they went, never a word uttered between them, but an
understanding shared of a great and seamless bond.
The old man laughed and laughed and cried tears of ineffable satisfaction
that washed away all the previous tears and years of hopelessness and fatigue.
His legs the pistons, his blood the fuel, bicycle and man become one perfect
machine, the old man felt safer and more at peace than ever before. Something
subtle stirred his spirit, lifting it up on his breath, out of his body in a
mist before his stinging eyes, only to slam it back down into his chest as if to
say, "You’re Alive!"
At that moment, when he had lived life for the first time in ages, his heart
finally snapped like a broken chain and he fell to the concrete with a thud. The
boy rushed to his side, attending to the man with the same great care he had
shown for his bike, and placed his little hand on the man’s dying heart. Lying
there on the pavement, still clutching the drops of his handlebars, the old man
felt a sweet pain in his legs and in his chest, and with a smile on his face
that had not shown itself in decades, he gasped, "I did it - I did it, by God!
Put me back on my bike!"
Then the old man’s heart could clutch to life no longer and he died, but died
at least having really lived for a few final moments, died at least having
learned anew that simple, yet profound, most natural calm and singular passion
of the ride. The boy stayed with the man a while, then took both bicycles and
rolled them into his garage, side by side.
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