For starters, my legs are half the size of a normal human being. The first problem that arises is the seat height. After adjusting the seat to the lowest possible setting, I am met with my second complication. The bike is still too tall. So now I'm left searching through children's bikes decorated with purple and pink streamers. At this point I have no desire to continue.
I've determined that my bike riding impediment started way back in my early years. Growing up a Latin American child in the predominantly Caucasian suburbs of Orangevale, California was challenging. This was mostly because I longed to be on the "other side." The other side being one of light-hair, blue eyes and milk served with dinner.
An advantage to being on the other side? Straight hair. Straight hair that sat nicely on your head no matter the temperature, humidity or the wetness of your hair fresh out of the pool. Back in the day, flat irons were not a commonly used styling tool. This is how a picture like this, happens.
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| Such a pretty little ethnic child. |
As a Salvadorian with curly-haired parents, I was never afforded this luxury. I have thick, black, curly hair and no one knew what to do with it. So my hair tended to resemble an authentic lion's mane situated on my head. As such, I took to ironing my hair with an actual iron and towel. In my own stranded-on-a-desert-island-scenario, a Chi flat iron would be one of the three items I'd take with me.
I was never too interested sports. In part because I had no real athletic talent I could think of and in part because my family never stressed the importance of them. Sports were not a part of our Salvadorian household and that was fine with me. But while suburbia was out enjoying sunny days of little league baseball and football, I was inside learning all the songs to the classic Disney hit, Hakuna Matata. To this day I am incredibly uncoordinated and if balls are thrown my way, I duck.
My mom is a great cook. Her delicious recipes are made up of various ingredients typically thrown in by "pinches," "handfuls" or "un poquito de" (a little bit of). But, as you can imagine, for someone trying to appear to be just like everyone else in seventh grade, having pupusas and curtido hiding in my lunch bag was not ideal. Poo-Poo-Sas. Note: If you want to be made fun of in school, make sure to introduce your friends to foods that sound like poo-poo when spoken. While other pre-teens enjoyed their Wonder Bread sandwiches and snack-sized puddings, I was opening up Tupperware filled with Arroz Con Pollo. In eighth grade I stopped bringing lunches all together.
Finally, the point of all this, my inability to ride a bike. During the summer leading into my Senior year of High School I enjoyed a job at Rollingwood Raquet Club as a snack bar attendant. To get there daily, my mom bought me a bike. And I rode it, smoothly and confidently. From what I remember, that summer was the only time I allowed myself to feel the wind in my hair (under my helmet) on my two wheels. After that summer I have no recollection of my bike. I assume a caravan of gypsies stole it one night while wandering from town to town. If they're reading this, I hope you named it and loved it more than I ever could.
Years later, when trying to ride a bike again, I found that I could not stay in a straight line. My brain had no recollection of ever learning how to operate this piece of machinery. Underneath me, my legs quivered as though they were being forced against their will to take part in this absurdity. Numerous times I've been seen out walking a bike as if it were a pet. My friends are still trying to teach me this skill. So far, they have failed.
Well, there is always next year. The year of the bike.
By the way...as it turns out, I've become pretty fond of my own 'side' in my adult life. (I'll never get grey hair!)
By the way...as it turns out, I've become pretty fond of my own 'side' in my adult life. (I'll never get grey hair!)
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