Just down the street from our house is another street — typical of suburbia, I know. But this street is different. It’s freshly paved, smooth and inviting, and it has just enough of a slope that anyone can enjoy riding up and down it.
And so of late, we’ve taken to doing just that: E on his four-wheel pusher, the Girl on her new bike or her scooter, I on my bike, and usually K on foot.
Occasionally we meet neighbors there, either by arrangement or by accident. Some are more enthusiastic about the activity than others; some ride with more abandon than others; some leave me shaking my head in wonder. Up and down, up and down, races and gentle rides, laughing and literal screaming (“That’s not fair!”) — it becomes a little microcosm of childhood.
I have my own memories like this — summers on bikes, hills that are a pleasure (as well as hills that are hellish), riding with friends.
Seeing my own children follow those same paths brings a smile.
