Driveway ridin bliss

Unfazed and unaware of the street ahead of him, my ten year old cousin rode along the three connecting driveways in front of his grandmother's house (which also happens to be the same home of his most favorite cousin).

After discovering that his favorite cousin was too a lover of bicycles, he kindly invited her to join him. He seemed happy to have a partner in this driveway joy ride other than himself.

I remember yearning for such a partner in the years following my sisters infamous "accident". It was a regular fall evening, she had been braving the two wheeled machinery for years, and yet somehow, someway, on this regular day, her two front, very shiny teeth wound up shattered by the newly paved black tar beneath her.

From then on I became a solo rider.

Remembering this, I was happy to provide my cousin with some company.

As he raced by me, winding around sprouts of grass and the occasional rock, I wondered how long these three driveways would satisfy him. He was lucky enough to have a Grandma with a longer than average piece of asphalt extending from her house to the road and family members next door that were more than happy enough to share theirs. This would give him a little more time; at least a year or two more than the kids on the other side of town who were burdened by sidewalks and little front yards.

This I remembered was one of the benefits of having no other neighbors growing up besides your own family--not knowing that there are other biker children out there just like you--extreme riding from sidewalk to sidewalk, and gasp, even crossing streets (I would later learn this "benefit" would also contribute to a certain social awkwardness, but that's for another day).

So I went on, much like my cousin, believing only three driveways existed for bicycle tires to tread. I did not discover until age 14.5, that there was a bigger, more dangerous, yet more exciting paths for me to explore. It was at this age when I met friends who were already pros at crossing streets, even the treacherous "White Horse Pike."

14.5 was a good age--high school started which began my "teen angst" years, my ride was updated to the purple powerhouse I have now, I had my first real kiss on a trampoline at some kids house I barely knew by a kid I barely knew, and my parents finally let me ride my bike alone across that treacherous highway that was separating my world from the rest of the world--and I never looked back.

Until the other day with my cousin.

It seemed like the only place he wanted to be was there--pedaling as fast and as far as he could in the parameters given to him. One day he'll learn to maneuver the town's rigid sidewalk system and look out for cars other than the one of his mother driving up to get him after work. But not yet.

For now he'll learn everything he can from the space he has. Years of practice, focus and observations. He'll prepare himself for the day he gets to have a great crossing. And from then on he'll prepare for other great crossings to come.