The Race to Wait

With her sleeves pulled over her hands and her hood pulled atop her head to shield the cold and misty weather, she looked back over her left shoulder in anticipation of her mother's approval to cross the intersection and ascend Summit Hill. She obviously could not wait to indulge in the comic books and treats that filled her Walgreen's bag.

I vividly remember these days as though I were this child on this bike. A race to the intersection followed by a forceful push on the brakes followed by the look back over the shoulder. Yes, it was yesterday. And this random walk down the avenue and momentary journey into this child's life brought it to the forefront of my mind.

As her mother nodded her head in agreement, she would crouch her torso down onto her handlebars and pedal with all her might to the next intersection...only to wait once again for the repeated cycle. Peddle and wait. Rush and stop. Frantic movement followed by calm. It is the given American right.

At one intersection whilst she awaited the command of her mother, a brilliant red car rumbled by. Her eyes followed it as though it were a firework on the Fourth of July. I could hear the wheels in her head turning.

Some day. That car. This street. That was her plan.

When we were young and delicately balancing our candy on the bars of our bike, we dreamed of the days when we would drive, with total independence, a shiny car on the those very same streets that we travelled. And many decades later, we have the very same dream in reverse. We wish to park our shiny cars and to mount a bike so that we may race to a red light and look back over our shoulders for the nod of our parents. And we wish to hurry up and wait again.