Someone stole my boy’s bike.

Fortunately, a friend has loaned us one until we buy another, but that bike! I bought it when Dane was 2 – the future rider he’d become, just a pedaling speck in my mind.

That bike inspired a 5-year-old’s self-reliance that would’ve made Emerson proud.

All summer long, we rode, first in circles around the playground; then, into Sausalito or along the Bay Trail between Marin City and Mill Valley.

We put in about 15 miles a week on that bike –– Dane zigzagging along the Bay Trail and me easing my own bike behind him, his 4-year-old sister attached to me on her trail-a-bike.

At first, Dane’s zigzags made my hair stand on end as serious cyclists zoomed by. Eventually, though, he learned to use the right side of the trail, and I watched him more calmly from behind.

Soon he was off-road, standing up to test his tires in the mud, raising a daring hand to point out the great white heron or snowy egret at water’s edge.

Come August, he even advanced to the hilly 5-mile perimeter of Angel Island, working in 100-degree weather with the determination of a yellow jersey rider on the Tour de France.

Now we ride to school. Not many students do this regularly, so, when he pulls his helmet off, his hair sweaty and sticking up, his fellow kindergarteners are incredulous, “You rode again, Dane?” And he smiles shyly with a proud sense of himself.

But riding isn’t about attention; Dane loves what riding feels like. When his sister says, “Let’s go feel the wind on our arms,” we all know what she means.

Let’s just get out and move ourselves along. Let’s pick warm blackberries in September and brush rain off our faces in January. Let’s pedal up steep hills, gasping for air, or speed through puddles, soaking our socks. Let’s have an adventure.

That’s what that bike represented: a boy gaining a sense of himself and a sense of adventure, powered by his own two legs.

I knew that bike wouldn’t last forever, and that Dane would eventually need a bigger one, and that someday he’d ride without me. But that bike marked the beginning of a way of life that extends beyond cars and exhaust, into adventure and self-reliance, and it served as the vehicle for me to witness it.

Boy, I’ll miss that bike.

But, Bike, thanks for that boy.

By Anjie Reynolds

Labels: Angie Reynolds, bike, Marin City, Mill Valley, Sausalito, Tour de France

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What if I treated each day like my son’s birthday?

I am not talking about presents, balloons, and birthday candles -- though I enjoy such symbols of celebration. I am addressing the way I admire my son’s every expression on his birthday as if he were a newborn -- the way he wakes up and notices the light lining the shades, the long eyelashes that he shares with my dad, the way his unkempt hair reminds me that I cannot yet bear to have anyone besides me trim his curls, the way he says, “Remember when we went on a walk to Phoenix Lake, Mommy? Remember that? Let’s do that again sometime.”

This year, for his actual birthday morning, I imagine a mommy, son, and Nana outing to Crissy Field where he can ride his new bike, followed by grilled cheese and hot chocolate, but my son doesn’t want to leave the house on a cozy December morning.

My son and I weave trains up and down a mountain as my mom watches from the nearby couch. Usually, I might grow restless after hours of indoor play, but today I am engaged in each moment and lose any trace of agenda.

As long as my son is content, I am happy.

Our big excursion at noon is to the bike shop in downtown San Anselmo to adjust the height of my son’s bike seat. I photograph him outside the bike shop, and his face brightens the lackluster cement setting. He asks to see the digital photos. As I play back the shots, I notice a building behind him -- the now closed Yahiro restaurant where my husband and I ate chicken Teriyaki the night before we would be surprised with an early delivery of our dear boy.

My mom and I follow my son as he rides up and down a ramp, through puddles. As he begins to soar down the hill, he says, “Hold me, Mommy.” I place my hand over his as he grips the bike handle. He will only turn three once. But to me everyday is his birthday.

By Ariana Amini

Labels: balloons, bike, birthday candles, children's birthdays, Crissy Field, presents

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