It seems cliché to tell you that 18 years ago I was a ten-year-old boy, with a blonde mushroom haircut and a 21-speed, red bicycle. But it’s the truth, and although this story includes tragedy, I must emphasize the excitement and utter joy I felt in showing my Specialized Rockhopper — not yet a month old — to my best friends Tyler Tragemann and Chris McNamara. It was the spring season of our 5th grade school year (the final year in the elementary school, which presently, made us the king of the heap), my grandfather sensing my coming of age, decided it would be an appropriate time to spoil me with a sensational, early graduation present: a new, red bicycle.
Whether it was the high of riding my new bike or holding the title of 5th grader, my confidence was at an all-time high, perhaps even bordering on recklessness. This helps explain my decision, on that cloudless Vermont afternoon, to forgo locking my red bicycle to the bike lock; instead, choosing to be the first youth through the double-glass doors, in search of soda pop and Swedish fish. Exiting the Mobil, sugary foods in hand, I was struck by the awful discovery, my bike was no longer where I left it. To my horror, I witnessed a thief, furiously pedaling my new bike at full speed up Allen Road. The emotions remain fresh to this day: shock, fear and deprivation, as I my Rockhopper gripped the pavement, leaving me farther behind with every tread, until finally out of sight.

It didn’t take long to make the devastating conclusion that I would never again lay eyes on my red bicycle. The material loss of my red bicycle hurt deeply, I loved riding that bike and I appreciated the status it earned me, not only within my circle of friends, but the entire elementary school. But the affect was emotional; how could I face my father with the news I had lost my graduation present? How could I explain to my grandfather that an impulse to buy a sugary drink had cost my precious gift? I don’t remember chasing after my red bicycle that day, my memory is blurred with oncoming tears and pain that still penetrates to my core.

I walked home slowly that afternoon, a route that usually took 10 minutes to ride, lasted over an hour by foot. My thoughts ranged from shock and sadness, to fear predicting the reprimand that lay in wait. I knew my father would be upset with my decision to leave the bike unattended, but neither his reaction nor the inevitable punishment he might produce, would compare to the guilt that would arrive decades later recalling my fatal mistake.

As I look back on the experience, I acknowledge the theft of the red bicycle helped me to grow as a person, by preparing me for future moments of loss. I realize now, that all people must deal with the experience of losing things, sometimes even people they love. After that day, I rarely stopped to buy Swedish fish anymore, and although the trauma from the experience may never be erased from my memory, I think my grandfather would be proud of the resilience and perseverance I showed after losing my prized possession. I never imagined a final chapter was missing from this narrative: however, I’m pleased to conclude this recount with the exclamation that after an 18 year absence, I successfully regained the red bicycle earlier this month. Here, underneath 8 layers of lacquer and a blend of warm yellows, reds and oranges, lies the memory of my grandfather and my childhood.

On the bus yesterday afternoon

the heads of two dozen students

bowed in supplication to the virtual gods

Facebook and Twitter, ironically engrossed

in similar yet singular action,

a bubble-wrapped simulacrum of solipsistic enclosure,

while outside mud-streaked bus windows

lurked nearly spring replete with its halcyon

subtleties: white light splashing

merrily across the black elbows

of ready-to-be-awakened trees. We must

learn to temper our reverence

for this technology, to locate its off switch,

an education that perhaps needs to initiate

someplace other than inside the Verizon store,

where we might yet be trained to view machines

like toilets: conveniences

with a definite end—to be employed when necessary,

but then released from servitude. Just imagine

your legitimate horror if friend or spouse

chose willfully to measure out their days

within the confines of a diminutive toilet stall,

squandering precious hours

their head down, obliviously idled.

Literary Laundry Press 2011