My dad and I would spend sunny afternoons
riding our bicycles
through my suburban neighborhood.
We would ride down my street
until we reached the sidewalk that diverged into two paths
and neither of them were less traveled by
as we always ended up taking both.
The right path leads to the small waterfalls
just past the basketball court
where my brothers and their friends
would play pick-up games.
Riding across the tiny bridges is a moment of brief bliss
as the sounds of the water rushing reaches your ears
and drowns out everything else.
We’d maneuver to the giant lake
filled with brightly colored kois
and serene storks standing out on the rocks.
Following the curve of the water
we would end up in a private neighborhood
where the blacktop is so shiny and smooth
that your wheels glide across the entire street.
And you can go fast
since it’s silent
and no cars come barreling down the road.
Somehow, we’d end up at that beginning sidewalk
and now it’s time to go to the left.
Over here, there’s a small playground
where my dad would chase my siblings and me
and I would hide in the tube of the slide.
We could spend hours there
on our spaceship
trying to outsmart Darth Vader and the dark side.
Just past the park, we’d reach the stretches of green belts
lacing their way through the streets
and the bushes I flew into
when first learning how to ride my bicycle.
We'd take a left after the dip in the sidewalk
ending up back on our street
and deciding that it’s getting late
once the sky turns pink and orange.
We’d end up back at the cookie-cutter house
that I don’t live in anymore
but part of it is still mine.
I wonder if the kitchen is still red
and if the guest bathroom still smells like lemons.
I contemplate knocking
only to remember that there’s a new family living there
making memories in our pool
and playing in the basement.
I smile, hoping that maybe
they will ride the same sidewalks I grew up on.
I paste these memories into a poem
but there is really no need
because remembering the twists and turns
of my old neighborhood
is just like riding a bike.

My first glimpse of
Operatic joy occurred
March 12th of years past.
In their foolishness,
They allowed me a go
At an open vehicle of
Two wheels
that went as fast as I wanted,
Where I wanted,
For however long I wanted.

I would bike away in my dreams
As they mounted assaults in life,
I couldn't help but feel invulnerable
Upon my nimble ride.

Yes O yes,
I still cruise to this day.
My freedom is mine
Forever to behold and make.

it was warm and the wind was with me
but the rain on my bell dampened the ring
and you couldn't hear the smile on my face.

Every morning after the reveille
we hold a bicycle race
from the camp to the Meuse

At full speed I take
the last turn, right into
brand new barbed wire

invisible in the light of the sun
As proficient torturers two others
are colliding with me immediately

Flat tire, torn clothes
In a comic strip, I would now
be hanging horizontally

But I fall, rips in my flesh
gaping and bleeding
Bandages at breakfast

and then I lead my patrol again, what else
after the mysterious providence
of a farmer who's going to pasture on the river?

she sped down the hill;
the cool wind flying through her hair and dancing
on her creamy, golden skin.

speckled with freckles,
her smooth hands gripped the handle bars
of her bike.

the machine seemed to quiver
under her fingers and
despite
being a little old and rusty,
let her fly
on oiled springs
and rubber pedals.

Today was warm, I felt a little bit livelier.
Challenges never cease to erupt from the cracks in the sidewalk like brazen dandelions, the sun a relief after unyielding darkness.
I see a lot of roadblocks, they make me anxious.
The taste of defeat is not foreign, but the saccharine glow of success washes the horizon; set ablaze with ambition.
I want to be better, almost perhaps somebody else.
Today was warm, I felt a little bit happier.

On the bicycle trail, a middle-aged
woman in spandex biking gear
had her bike flipped upside down.
I dismounted next to her.
“You need a hand?”
She kept her eyes fixed
on her bike wheel. “Why do I need
your help?” Her voice was filled
with contempt. “It’s only a flat.”
I didn’t respond.
Pedaling along the river,
I made the decision
to keep offering assistance.
Someday I’d need it.

-Ron Gavalik