Biking has always played an important part of my life until recently, beginning with my early childhood. When I was too young to ride anything on wheels, my parents took me on short bicycle trips through the neighborhood, always stopping at the same one or two places. The first location was a small park located somewhere on Lanewood Circle. A long, empty swath of green grassland made up the vast majority of the park. In the far distant corner near the trees, which merely disguised the deep creek lying behind them, two dark-brown picnic benches awaited visitors. It was old and neglected, evidenced by the peeling paint, jagged edges, and large splinters. For entertainment purposes, there was the traditional slide, swings, and seesaw. The slide and swings were okay, but I was always afraid of the seesaw because I didn't like heights. The second location was an area near a bridge where you could feed a host of ducks and geese. The geese sometimes came to see what they were missing, but they mostly preferred to stay away. They all lived happily in a large pond on someone's private property, but this didn't stop the ducks from going to the shore near the road en masse. The lake they emerged from was always a dark brown with a sometimes-green tinge. Large oaks and other trees surrounded it. If not for the lack of moss, it would be easy to think there was a plantation house nearby. The residents, however, did not live in anything resembling a plantation house. It was simply a rather small but long one-story abode near the back of the massive pond with a lengthy driveway leading to it. The area to the right of the drive served as the location for the duck feeding. On each and every occasion, we gave the ducks an ample supply of bread, usually half a loaf. It may not seem like much of an activity, but the visits to see and feed the ducks have forever been etched into my memory.
When I became old enough, my first vehicle was a contraption called a Big Wheel. First made by Fisher Price, the toy had one huge, gigantic wheel in the center front and two smaller wheels in the back. The passenger sat in a plastic seat directly behind the wheel only a few inches off the ground. To move the vehicle, you had to push the pedals, which were fastened to the very center of the main wheel. This meant you had to prop your legs upward as you placed the feet on the pedals. To steer the Big Wheel, you had to grab the plastic handlebars. The handlebars were attached to a central pylon molded to the seat. Plastic streamers dangled from them for decorative purposes, though I recall forcibly removing them at one point.
I eventually outgrew the Big Wheel and graduated to the tricycle. There was only one tricycle in the household and I remember it well. The best way to describe it would be through the words “tough” and “sturdy”. Painted a rusted red, the metal tricycle looked as though it had gone through some rough times over the years. I know that it came into my family's possession long before I was born, but I don't know when. It was often stored in the garage of my grandparents who lived next door, but it could also be found in the backyard from time to time. Regardless of where it was kept, the tricycle never needed to receive any repairs. The seat always remained in the same spot, never moving to the left, to the right, upward, or downward. It sat in the correct position day after day. The metal step behind the seat, designed to help little ones get on, stayed where it was. The handlebars never loosened one. The only problem we ever had with the tricycle was its tendency to squeak as the pedals were pushed. I don't know who used it before me, but I do know that I rode it, along with my brother and sister. I'm sure others took advantage of it as well. Unfortunately, the tricycle's fate is unknown to me. It vanished from sight but never from my thoughts. I am sure that somewhere out there is a child pushing the pedals of an old, rusty metal tricycle living past its prime.
From the tricycle, I moved onward to the bicycle with training wheels. The wheels eventually came off and I found myself pedaling with one of my parents holding the bike. When I learned the basics, I sat on the seat then allowed Mom or Dad to push me forward so I could get started. As was always the case, they were nearby to prevent any accidents. I fell off several times, but nothing serious ever happened. They gradually stood further away as time went on. My first successful run without any assistance occurred at The Lake House, a home away from home located in Gun Barrel City. I can't remember when exactly it occurred, but I do recall that one of my cousins was there to help just in case. After the initial success, it became easier to ride and my fear of falling from it disappeared. I had mastered the art of biking.
When I first started biking, all bicycles only had one chain and one gear. Even the highly regarded Schwinns, considered to be the highest quality brand in the United States, adhered to such guidelines. This was not a bad thing, for it was considerably easy to get the chain back in place following a collision with a street curb or a crack in the sidewalk. Of course, the absence of gears meant a lot more effort was needed to go up hills. There was also an absence of safety regulations regarding attire. You were required to make the traditional hand signals and respect the traffic, but you didn't have to wear any helmets or special pads. In fact, most of those around me who rode bikes thought such attire was for sissies. Real road warriors didn't need such equipment to hinder them. Such was the attitude of reckless youth who thought nothing could stop them.
Eventually, the multiple gears arrived in full force. First came the three-speed bike, followed by the six-speed, and finally the twelve-speed. This didn't matter in the beginning because such bicycles were way too expensive, sometimes reaching into the 300-dollar range. As soon as they came out, I wanted one and had to impatiently wait for the opportune time. Although the period didn't last very long, it seemed like an eternity to a young kid like myself. My first multi-speed bike which I received made its arrival either on my birthday or a special Christmas morning. I can't remember which. Regardless, I was filled with so much joy and excitement that I spent less than five minutes reading the instructions on how to properly use the gears. I simply got on the bike and rode away with the booklet in my right pocket. I soon came to the conclusion that I didn't need those instructions. All I had to do was switch gears until I found the one most suitable for the situation. The only problem was my tendency to change the gears too quickly, causing the chain to skip a position or completely come off. Trying to get the chain back on was quite the ordeal. Not only did you have to get it on the right spoke, you also had to deal with all the excessive grease. Black hands were often the end result, the cause of much frustration because I had such a difficult time removing the grease using just a simple bar of soap. The other frustration came from the tendency of the chain slipping off again or switching to another gear without any prompt. Sometimes, it seemed like the chain had a mind of its own and I was at its mercy. As time wore on, I often gave up on the whole multi-speed thing and rode the bike using only one gear. I had gone full circle, embracing the latest in technology and abandoning it in favor of doing things the old-fashioned way. Even when I received the twelve-speed, I spent most of my time pedaling in one gear.
During my childhood, I traveled with my brother throughout the area. We visited our elementary school, the Lanewood park, the duck pond, and Lochwood Park. We also expanded our horizons and ventured into Lochwood Mall. However, these locations were not our regular stops. That honor was bestowed upon The Alley of Doom, The Haunted Mansion, The Indiana Speedway, and The Rollercoaster.
The Alley of Doom was located across the street from the parking lot belonging to the elementary school I attended. At first glance, there was nothing special about it, just another narrow passageway behind a row of houses. But looks are deceiving, for the alley quickly dipped into a steep decline which must have equaled eighty degrees or more. A child my age would have exaggerated the matter and claimed it had a complete right angle. This particular spot served as the perfect place to play a game of dares. The object of the game was simple. Ride your bike to the bottom as fast as you could and make a sharp left turn without hitting the curb of the adjoining street. It never occurred to us that a car might be zooming down the two-lane street which resembled a road. Nor did it enter our minds what would happen if someone decided exit the driveway into the alley as we sped down the passageway. Our main concern was avoiding hitting the curb. To make things interesting, we added an extra element of excitement. Brake your bike as late as possible before arriving at the bottom. For the most part, we avoided the curb with plenty of close calls. When the bike did hit the barrier, we usually received a large jolt in the body or jumped from the bicycle in hopes of avoiding injury. There were some times, however, when we flew through the air over the handlebars. How we managed to escape unharmed on such occasions remain a mystery.
One block to the right of the alley's exit, The Haunted Mansion towered above those who dared to pass by. It had two stories, maybe three. Though it was very tall, it didn't seem to be wide. It looked old, almost ancient, suffering from neglect with its chipped paint, loose boards, and closed windows. It seemed abandoned and unused, particularly because you never saw any parked cars. No lights ever shown through the curtains or blinds. Though to be fair, we always arrived on the scene during the daytime. A tall, wooden fence surrounded the property. Although you couldn't see the yard while standing still, you could get glimpses of it while walking because of the small slits between each picket. What you saw was more chilling than the house. Old, deteriorated statues and fountains littered the grass along with what appeared to be gravestones and monuments. Who or what was buried there? And why? No one dared to approach the front door and ask, for who knew what dreadful thing would happen. To top things off, the property was guarded by a tall, huge dog with a black coat of fur. At the slightest sound or hint of movement, it would rush to the gate and bash against it, hoping to free itself so it could mangle whoever dared get near the house. In one particular area, there was a considerable hole. Whenever we walked by, the dog would attack the hole and start eating the wood in hopes of making it big enough to get through. The dog could never get its muzzle completely through the hole, so we always felt safe. I will admit, however, that its arrival would always give us a small startle. The fear eventually subsided and we started making a habit of banging the fence or making loud noises to get the dog's attention. This habit came to a screeching halt one day when the dog busted its entire head through the hole. That was it for us. No more trips to the fence. A few weeks later, the owner had placed a chunk of plastic over the hole. But we didn't go near again, afraid the canine might bust another hole and get us.
The Indiana Speedway was the name we gave to the street which intersected with the alley. It twisted and turned for what seemed like an eternity until it reached Easton Road. Because the street always seemed to be empty and void of cars, we raced down this stretch of concrete and asphalt, never slowing down as we traversed the gradual decline. Onward we pedaled, racing against each other but never playing dirty to get ahead, for we were going way too fast to risk injury. The whole journey lasted for fifteen to twenty minutes. This length inspired us to give the street our own name. In the end, we chose The Indiana Speedway in honor of the infamous Indianapolis 500. We all had great fun, for we never really cared about who won. It was the speed and thrills which counted. The only negative side of the whole venture was the journey back to the starting line. The gradual decline was hard to see as you traveled to the finish, but you could definitely tell when you headed to the beginning. Not only could you see the slope, you could feel it as you traveled upward, constantly pumping the pedals to gain at least some speed. Needless to say, you received quite a workout from the ordeal.
While biking along The Indiana Speedway, we discovered a spot which became known as The Rollercoaster. The entrance was very difficult to find and needed a practiced eye to locate it. The area around the entryway was a large clearing in the form of an empty field. For some reason, the grass covering the area was always yellow with a tinge of light brown, regardless of the season. At the very back of this field, a long line of trees served as a barrier. The line made it appear as though a thick forest lay beyond when the complete opposite was true. Somewhere along the bordering trees, a small, narrow gap led into the area beyond. Once past the trees, we found ourselves traveling along a series of trails which traversed a long series of small hills. Most of the hills were close to each other, giving the illusion of a rollercoaster if you were riding your bike at high speeds, which was exactly what we did. The hills did not always line up one after another. Sometimes, the trail would make a left or right turn before heading into the next batch. Up and down we went, swerving around the curves at full speed before doing it again. For the most part, it was relatively safe. Some dangers did exist, mostly in the form of poison oak. There was one particular area at the bottom of a hill which had oak reaching out on both sides. The only way to avoid it was lifting your legs high when you approached the bottom. Of course, such dangers invited the opportunity for dares. The most popular one was seeing who could lift their legs the fastest at the very last moment when going downward to the poison oak. Miraculously, no one ever made contact. However, at the nearby creek where we played to take a respite from the rollercoaster, my brother managed to come into contact with the plant and ended up in the hospital. It marked the last time he would ever play in any creek again.
As time passed, the amount of biking decreased but the distance which I rode seemed to increase. I went from my home on Jupiter Road to places like White Rock Lake and Town East Mall. A lot of this had to do with my new desire to pursue hobbies and go on walks. By my high school years, I abandoned biking altogether. With my return from college came my return to biking, mostly because I grew tired of walking to work. This ended the moment I acquired a job located only fifteen minutes from home. Circumstances arose which made it possible to go back to college to pursue a master's degree. I abandoned this effort and moved to the small town of Athens, Georgia.
When I got my first job in the college town, I acquired my next bicycle. The constant hills, however, prompted me to find other ways to get around. My first instinct was to buy an electric bicycle, an invention which recently entered the American market. In a nutshell, it was a regular bicycle with a large battery that propelled the wheels to move. This new technology was very expensive, meaning I would not be able to afford it. I looked elsewhere and chose an electric scooter instead. I grew fond of it even though the wheel sometimes broke, costing me a hundred dollars to fix. I had many interesting adventures while going back and forth to work. On several occasions, I had to go through a cemetery late at night. I also had to drive it along the main road to arrive at my destination. I eventually gave up on it because the wheel broke too many times. I felt it would simply be cheaper if I got something else. I purchased a gas-powered scooter at Pep Boys but returned it when I saw that the fuel container was made out of a cheap plastic. I then considered getting an electric bicycle. Unfortunately, I couldn't find one which had the battery power I needed.
My mind then made a strange detour. I somehow came to the conclusion that motorcycles were just like electric bicycles, only using fuel instead of electricity. They could also go faster and take you further. I started reading about motorcycles, safety, and proper attire. The only problem which really remained was how to obtain a license since I was living in a relatively small town. I finally found a place and started adding the costs. I soon entered the process of choosing a motorcycle and found them too expensive at the moment. This did not stop me from dreaming about driving down the highway. The one thing which did stop me from further pursuit was the sudden imagery of what happens when you crash your bike. Memories of incident reports and news stories entered my mind. The imagination took over and my desire for a motorcycle came to a close. So I ended up getting another bicycle. It didn't make the long journey when I decided to move back to Dallas.
From that time onward, I dreamed about getting an electric bike. That dream came true last year when I ordered one from Amazon. The only problem was that it came with a damaged part. This was fixed by replacing it with a new one. I got onto the new bike only to realize I had bought the wrong one. The bicycle I wanted was one which would allow me to move around without pedaling. The one I acquired would only propel itself forward if you used the pedals. Still, I tried to make the best of the situation. Maybe I could get use to it. As fate would have it, the front tire went flat after only two days of real use. I bought a new tire then tried to put it on. There was one problem. I couldn't get the tire back on, nor could I reconnect the important wires. I gave up on the thing and gave it to someone in my apartment complex. Will I ever get another bike? Only time will tell.
When I became old enough, my first vehicle was a contraption called a Big Wheel. First made by Fisher Price, the toy had one huge, gigantic wheel in the center front and two smaller wheels in the back. The passenger sat in a plastic seat directly behind the wheel only a few inches off the ground. To move the vehicle, you had to push the pedals, which were fastened to the very center of the main wheel. This meant you had to prop your legs upward as you placed the feet on the pedals. To steer the Big Wheel, you had to grab the plastic handlebars. The handlebars were attached to a central pylon molded to the seat. Plastic streamers dangled from them for decorative purposes, though I recall forcibly removing them at one point.
I eventually outgrew the Big Wheel and graduated to the tricycle. There was only one tricycle in the household and I remember it well. The best way to describe it would be through the words “tough” and “sturdy”. Painted a rusted red, the metal tricycle looked as though it had gone through some rough times over the years. I know that it came into my family's possession long before I was born, but I don't know when. It was often stored in the garage of my grandparents who lived next door, but it could also be found in the backyard from time to time. Regardless of where it was kept, the tricycle never needed to receive any repairs. The seat always remained in the same spot, never moving to the left, to the right, upward, or downward. It sat in the correct position day after day. The metal step behind the seat, designed to help little ones get on, stayed where it was. The handlebars never loosened one. The only problem we ever had with the tricycle was its tendency to squeak as the pedals were pushed. I don't know who used it before me, but I do know that I rode it, along with my brother and sister. I'm sure others took advantage of it as well. Unfortunately, the tricycle's fate is unknown to me. It vanished from sight but never from my thoughts. I am sure that somewhere out there is a child pushing the pedals of an old, rusty metal tricycle living past its prime.
From the tricycle, I moved onward to the bicycle with training wheels. The wheels eventually came off and I found myself pedaling with one of my parents holding the bike. When I learned the basics, I sat on the seat then allowed Mom or Dad to push me forward so I could get started. As was always the case, they were nearby to prevent any accidents. I fell off several times, but nothing serious ever happened. They gradually stood further away as time went on. My first successful run without any assistance occurred at The Lake House, a home away from home located in Gun Barrel City. I can't remember when exactly it occurred, but I do recall that one of my cousins was there to help just in case. After the initial success, it became easier to ride and my fear of falling from it disappeared. I had mastered the art of biking.
When I first started biking, all bicycles only had one chain and one gear. Even the highly regarded Schwinns, considered to be the highest quality brand in the United States, adhered to such guidelines. This was not a bad thing, for it was considerably easy to get the chain back in place following a collision with a street curb or a crack in the sidewalk. Of course, the absence of gears meant a lot more effort was needed to go up hills. There was also an absence of safety regulations regarding attire. You were required to make the traditional hand signals and respect the traffic, but you didn't have to wear any helmets or special pads. In fact, most of those around me who rode bikes thought such attire was for sissies. Real road warriors didn't need such equipment to hinder them. Such was the attitude of reckless youth who thought nothing could stop them.
Eventually, the multiple gears arrived in full force. First came the three-speed bike, followed by the six-speed, and finally the twelve-speed. This didn't matter in the beginning because such bicycles were way too expensive, sometimes reaching into the 300-dollar range. As soon as they came out, I wanted one and had to impatiently wait for the opportune time. Although the period didn't last very long, it seemed like an eternity to a young kid like myself. My first multi-speed bike which I received made its arrival either on my birthday or a special Christmas morning. I can't remember which. Regardless, I was filled with so much joy and excitement that I spent less than five minutes reading the instructions on how to properly use the gears. I simply got on the bike and rode away with the booklet in my right pocket. I soon came to the conclusion that I didn't need those instructions. All I had to do was switch gears until I found the one most suitable for the situation. The only problem was my tendency to change the gears too quickly, causing the chain to skip a position or completely come off. Trying to get the chain back on was quite the ordeal. Not only did you have to get it on the right spoke, you also had to deal with all the excessive grease. Black hands were often the end result, the cause of much frustration because I had such a difficult time removing the grease using just a simple bar of soap. The other frustration came from the tendency of the chain slipping off again or switching to another gear without any prompt. Sometimes, it seemed like the chain had a mind of its own and I was at its mercy. As time wore on, I often gave up on the whole multi-speed thing and rode the bike using only one gear. I had gone full circle, embracing the latest in technology and abandoning it in favor of doing things the old-fashioned way. Even when I received the twelve-speed, I spent most of my time pedaling in one gear.
During my childhood, I traveled with my brother throughout the area. We visited our elementary school, the Lanewood park, the duck pond, and Lochwood Park. We also expanded our horizons and ventured into Lochwood Mall. However, these locations were not our regular stops. That honor was bestowed upon The Alley of Doom, The Haunted Mansion, The Indiana Speedway, and The Rollercoaster.
The Alley of Doom was located across the street from the parking lot belonging to the elementary school I attended. At first glance, there was nothing special about it, just another narrow passageway behind a row of houses. But looks are deceiving, for the alley quickly dipped into a steep decline which must have equaled eighty degrees or more. A child my age would have exaggerated the matter and claimed it had a complete right angle. This particular spot served as the perfect place to play a game of dares. The object of the game was simple. Ride your bike to the bottom as fast as you could and make a sharp left turn without hitting the curb of the adjoining street. It never occurred to us that a car might be zooming down the two-lane street which resembled a road. Nor did it enter our minds what would happen if someone decided exit the driveway into the alley as we sped down the passageway. Our main concern was avoiding hitting the curb. To make things interesting, we added an extra element of excitement. Brake your bike as late as possible before arriving at the bottom. For the most part, we avoided the curb with plenty of close calls. When the bike did hit the barrier, we usually received a large jolt in the body or jumped from the bicycle in hopes of avoiding injury. There were some times, however, when we flew through the air over the handlebars. How we managed to escape unharmed on such occasions remain a mystery.
One block to the right of the alley's exit, The Haunted Mansion towered above those who dared to pass by. It had two stories, maybe three. Though it was very tall, it didn't seem to be wide. It looked old, almost ancient, suffering from neglect with its chipped paint, loose boards, and closed windows. It seemed abandoned and unused, particularly because you never saw any parked cars. No lights ever shown through the curtains or blinds. Though to be fair, we always arrived on the scene during the daytime. A tall, wooden fence surrounded the property. Although you couldn't see the yard while standing still, you could get glimpses of it while walking because of the small slits between each picket. What you saw was more chilling than the house. Old, deteriorated statues and fountains littered the grass along with what appeared to be gravestones and monuments. Who or what was buried there? And why? No one dared to approach the front door and ask, for who knew what dreadful thing would happen. To top things off, the property was guarded by a tall, huge dog with a black coat of fur. At the slightest sound or hint of movement, it would rush to the gate and bash against it, hoping to free itself so it could mangle whoever dared get near the house. In one particular area, there was a considerable hole. Whenever we walked by, the dog would attack the hole and start eating the wood in hopes of making it big enough to get through. The dog could never get its muzzle completely through the hole, so we always felt safe. I will admit, however, that its arrival would always give us a small startle. The fear eventually subsided and we started making a habit of banging the fence or making loud noises to get the dog's attention. This habit came to a screeching halt one day when the dog busted its entire head through the hole. That was it for us. No more trips to the fence. A few weeks later, the owner had placed a chunk of plastic over the hole. But we didn't go near again, afraid the canine might bust another hole and get us.
The Indiana Speedway was the name we gave to the street which intersected with the alley. It twisted and turned for what seemed like an eternity until it reached Easton Road. Because the street always seemed to be empty and void of cars, we raced down this stretch of concrete and asphalt, never slowing down as we traversed the gradual decline. Onward we pedaled, racing against each other but never playing dirty to get ahead, for we were going way too fast to risk injury. The whole journey lasted for fifteen to twenty minutes. This length inspired us to give the street our own name. In the end, we chose The Indiana Speedway in honor of the infamous Indianapolis 500. We all had great fun, for we never really cared about who won. It was the speed and thrills which counted. The only negative side of the whole venture was the journey back to the starting line. The gradual decline was hard to see as you traveled to the finish, but you could definitely tell when you headed to the beginning. Not only could you see the slope, you could feel it as you traveled upward, constantly pumping the pedals to gain at least some speed. Needless to say, you received quite a workout from the ordeal.
While biking along The Indiana Speedway, we discovered a spot which became known as The Rollercoaster. The entrance was very difficult to find and needed a practiced eye to locate it. The area around the entryway was a large clearing in the form of an empty field. For some reason, the grass covering the area was always yellow with a tinge of light brown, regardless of the season. At the very back of this field, a long line of trees served as a barrier. The line made it appear as though a thick forest lay beyond when the complete opposite was true. Somewhere along the bordering trees, a small, narrow gap led into the area beyond. Once past the trees, we found ourselves traveling along a series of trails which traversed a long series of small hills. Most of the hills were close to each other, giving the illusion of a rollercoaster if you were riding your bike at high speeds, which was exactly what we did. The hills did not always line up one after another. Sometimes, the trail would make a left or right turn before heading into the next batch. Up and down we went, swerving around the curves at full speed before doing it again. For the most part, it was relatively safe. Some dangers did exist, mostly in the form of poison oak. There was one particular area at the bottom of a hill which had oak reaching out on both sides. The only way to avoid it was lifting your legs high when you approached the bottom. Of course, such dangers invited the opportunity for dares. The most popular one was seeing who could lift their legs the fastest at the very last moment when going downward to the poison oak. Miraculously, no one ever made contact. However, at the nearby creek where we played to take a respite from the rollercoaster, my brother managed to come into contact with the plant and ended up in the hospital. It marked the last time he would ever play in any creek again.
As time passed, the amount of biking decreased but the distance which I rode seemed to increase. I went from my home on Jupiter Road to places like White Rock Lake and Town East Mall. A lot of this had to do with my new desire to pursue hobbies and go on walks. By my high school years, I abandoned biking altogether. With my return from college came my return to biking, mostly because I grew tired of walking to work. This ended the moment I acquired a job located only fifteen minutes from home. Circumstances arose which made it possible to go back to college to pursue a master's degree. I abandoned this effort and moved to the small town of Athens, Georgia.
When I got my first job in the college town, I acquired my next bicycle. The constant hills, however, prompted me to find other ways to get around. My first instinct was to buy an electric bicycle, an invention which recently entered the American market. In a nutshell, it was a regular bicycle with a large battery that propelled the wheels to move. This new technology was very expensive, meaning I would not be able to afford it. I looked elsewhere and chose an electric scooter instead. I grew fond of it even though the wheel sometimes broke, costing me a hundred dollars to fix. I had many interesting adventures while going back and forth to work. On several occasions, I had to go through a cemetery late at night. I also had to drive it along the main road to arrive at my destination. I eventually gave up on it because the wheel broke too many times. I felt it would simply be cheaper if I got something else. I purchased a gas-powered scooter at Pep Boys but returned it when I saw that the fuel container was made out of a cheap plastic. I then considered getting an electric bicycle. Unfortunately, I couldn't find one which had the battery power I needed.
My mind then made a strange detour. I somehow came to the conclusion that motorcycles were just like electric bicycles, only using fuel instead of electricity. They could also go faster and take you further. I started reading about motorcycles, safety, and proper attire. The only problem which really remained was how to obtain a license since I was living in a relatively small town. I finally found a place and started adding the costs. I soon entered the process of choosing a motorcycle and found them too expensive at the moment. This did not stop me from dreaming about driving down the highway. The one thing which did stop me from further pursuit was the sudden imagery of what happens when you crash your bike. Memories of incident reports and news stories entered my mind. The imagination took over and my desire for a motorcycle came to a close. So I ended up getting another bicycle. It didn't make the long journey when I decided to move back to Dallas.
From that time onward, I dreamed about getting an electric bike. That dream came true last year when I ordered one from Amazon. The only problem was that it came with a damaged part. This was fixed by replacing it with a new one. I got onto the new bike only to realize I had bought the wrong one. The bicycle I wanted was one which would allow me to move around without pedaling. The one I acquired would only propel itself forward if you used the pedals. Still, I tried to make the best of the situation. Maybe I could get use to it. As fate would have it, the front tire went flat after only two days of real use. I bought a new tire then tried to put it on. There was one problem. I couldn't get the tire back on, nor could I reconnect the important wires. I gave up on the thing and gave it to someone in my apartment complex. Will I ever get another bike? Only time will tell.