Yellow Bike
I bought a bike. A yellow bike.
Green is my favorite color. However, 1b is yellow, and 1c is orange. All three give me a rush and calm me, similar to when I enter a bookstore or library. I love wearing all three. They look good on me, especially yellow.
When I finally decide on shades, my kitchen will be painted yellow and my bedroom will be green. My library aka Billy Bookcase’s room, is blue. My childhood favorite color. The employee at the paint store helped me choose Midnight Navy and Lapis. In layman’s terms: dark blue and sky blue. Choosing colors from paint swatches as an adult is the equivalent of choosing crayons from the giant Crayola box. Matter of fact, the bucket.
I spotted Yellow Bike with a “For Sale” sign in a yard parking lot. Yellow frame, seat, and tires. The peanut butter basket and cup holder matched the peanut butter in the center of pedals and tires. It wasn’t until after I brought her home, I noticed a phone holder attached to the cup holder.
I don’t know anything about bikes. Yellow Bike is a Huffy, which was all the rage when I was a kid. Is she vintage? Classic? Old-fashioned? Do they all mean the same thing? I don’t know. They use those terms for cars. I know I had zero plans to buy a bike, just like I know I never want to own a car again. Too much maintenance. That didn’t occur to me with Yellow Bike.
I just know I wanted this bike. Had to have this bike. Specifically because it was yellow and had a basket.
Sometimes the yard gate was closed; other days open. I never spotted anyone. My mind raced at the thought of a guard dog. I mean, there’s always one that comes out of nowhere when someone is trespassing on a lot in the movies.
If one did appear, guaranteed I’d faint and then the dog would maul my face, leaving behind only my glasses. For that reason, I never crossed the threshold into the rocky, in need of repaving lot. But I did take photos, even through the fence. My camera phone did what my glasses could not: zoom in for a clearer picture of Yellow Bike and the phone number on the sign.
I wore this dress to three weddings!
My cousin’s wedding, May 2026.
For over a month, I passed Yellow Bike whenever I walked in that direction, particularly when headed to the grocery store.
One day, after a trip to the deli, I took a route home that, in retrospect, made no sense. It was a nice day. I wanted to prolong my walk, even though the extra time meant my hot sandwich was cooling by the second.
I passed by the lot. For the first time, I saw a man. I called out to him as I advanced, hoping there wasn’t a dog. I walked towards Yellow Bike, about 15 feet from the entrance.
“Hello. How much for the bike?” I inquired.
“Dunno. I would ‘af to make a phone cyall.” He whipped out his phone and called the number on the for-sale sign. Something I could’ve and should’ve done weeks ago.
He referred to me as “a young lady wanting to purchase the bike” before switching to speakerphone.
The man on the phone asked for $150. I countered with $120 which he immediately accepted. Well damn, I should’ve pressed for $100. He accepted Zelle. I transferred the money to someone whose name appeared as Snapper in my records.
It was only then I asked to test ride the bike. Backwards, I know, but the adrenaline clouded my thinking.
My heart raced. What if I couldn’t ride? What if I didn’t remember? The kind gentleman told me the bike was perfect for me. We were the right size for each other. Eyeballing me, he said I didn’t even have to adjust the seat, which he claimed was also perfect for me.
I set down my bag containing my hefty Cuban sandwich and my cup of lime chia seed juice.
The kickstand gave way easily enough. I swung my leg over. My heartbeat was in my ears; throat dry. I hadn’t ridden a bike since my trip to Cancun a few years prior, and before that, childhood. Stationary bikes at my weekly NYSC spin class didn’t count. I didn’t have to balance, and I didn’t have to worry about potholes and rocks.
Cancun 2019
I was as wobbly as a fawn learning how to walk. Within seconds, I steadied, but I was heading towards some parked trucks. I’d have to turn, and soon. But there were potholes!
I turned left ready to yell “Timber!” as I tipped over to make light of the situation. By golly! I stayed upright and kept pedaling. I circled another loop.
I flashbacked to when, as a child, me and the boys were only allowed to ride in circles in the driveway. My father moved his Jeep Cherokee to the street to allow more room, warning us not to hit the neighbors’ cars. Their driveway was only separated from ours by an imaginary line. Years later, the line wasn’t imaginary when my father had our side repaved. We had stopped riding bikes by then.
We were stoked when the neighbors’ cars weren’t there, either because they weren’t home or they also moved their cars to give us more room. If not, we’d just ride around.
We raced each other from the end of the driveway that led to the dropped backyard to the imaginary line where the driveway met the sidewalk. About 50 feet. Under no circumstance were we allowed to ride in the street or sidewalk. Not to say that we never did. We lived on an incline. That was too tempting not to try. Going downhill was exhilarating.
When we lived with an aunt in Florida for two years, we rode our bikes everywhere, much to our chagrin. It was embarrassing to ride our bikes, dressed in our Sunday best, to church. Sometimes we rode with Auntie E to the supermarket, so we could help carry grocery bags. Her adult tricycles had rear baskets. Our bikes did not. We had to balance bags on our handlebars.
She admonished us for putting our feet down at intersections. She didn’t grasp the concept of balancing on two wheels versus her three-wheeler.
The only place it wasn’t embarrassing to ride was to school. Lots of other students did. There was a freedom to being able to pedal away from the house of horrors as fast as I could. Wind whipping in my face, my glasses serving as goggles against Florida bugs.
The first time I got called a “nigger” was when I rode by three white boys sitting on a fence. I wondered how they were comfortable sitting on the ragged wire. They weren’t smoking, but in the movie adaptation of my life, I’d feature a single cigarette being passed around for dramatic effect. Add to their bad boy personas, as if teenagers calling a 10-year-old a “nigger” with the hard -ER weren’t bad enough.
It was the 80s. None of us wore helmets. I don’t even think we knew what helmets were.
The proudest moments of our young lives were when we taught ourselves how to ride with one hand. That was topped when we could ride with no hands! Even turning! The boys taught themselves how to pop wheelies.
Now as an adult, an accident-prone one at that, I wouldn’t fathom riding a bike without a helmet. I wore one in Mexico and plan to with Yellow Bike. I had visions of riding with a matching yellow helmet. I want to add yellow and white streamers to the handlebars. I’m all about adding whimsy to my life.
A quick Google search yielded more helmet and sports shops than expected. I fell down a rabbit hole comparing prices and features. Yes, helmets have features! Weight, ventilation, padding, visor, clip vs velcro straps, permanent or attachable front and back light for night vision and visibility, compliance with certified standards for cycling, roller skating, and skateboarding. Mind blown.
I was not expecting those prices. Of course a lifesaving device is $100+, but to spend nearly the same amount of money on the helmet as I did on the bike seemed preposterous. But necessary.
I could go with a less expensive option, but I was set on my olive green and yellow smiley face helmet. With an upcoming trip to Europe, it wasn’t a priority. I added to cart and saved the page.
Yellow Bike sits in the entrance of my apartment. I refuse to pay $15 a month to store it in my building’s bike room. There’s plenty of room for the front door to open. My vintage(?) yellow bike adds to the décor of my apartment. Opposite is my gallery wall featuring art, carved masks, and other souvenirs from visited countries. Other than Billy’s room (my library), it’s my favorite feature of my apartment.
Months later, I have yet to ride Yellow Bike. First, I fell ill with a respiratory virus for weeks. Still recovering, I got hit by a car while walking in a crosswalk.
I was excited the first time I made full rotations on the stationary bike in physical therapy. It meant I was making progress in my healing. I was getting closer to being able to ride Yellow Bike. I ignore the fact that, for now, I’m scared of crosswalks and moving cars.
I still imagine myself wearing my smiley face helmet, dressed in yellow, zipping through the nearby cemetery while the streamers fly. The irony is that I take daily walks there, but next year at this time I’ll be zooming. I already know the lay of the land.
https://www.instagram.com/p/DbHhczwkY5U/?img_index=1
#Adulthood #adventure #Bike #BikeRiding #biking #childhood #cycling #SelfCare #travel #Whimsy #Yellow #YellowBike