Isabella Taylor
A bicycle is inherently beautiful. It’s a combination of the Greek “kyklos,” meaning circle or wheel, and the prefix “bi,” meaning two, that makes it truly sophisticated and lacks nothing in meaning. There are no plot holes in a bicycle; its language is exact.
When I was about five or so, I remember the netted tent I had over my bed. It was a sort of cribbed-in bed, so that I could have the net in the first place. The problem was that I kept climbing out of the bed to do whatever it is a five-year-old does. One night, my grandmother put me to bed with some safety scissors. She had snuck them in and instructed me to cut open the top of the net and “be free.”
Queen sang about bicycles. They dreamt of riding and turned it into a metaphor about choice and stereotypes, conformity and breaking free—that hidden meaning in every thought we think. Queen was one of my father’s favorite bands. He loved rock ‘n roll, he loved hard rock, he loved rocks. The metal of a C-130 military plane counts, right? When he flew, I bet he felt the freest he would ever feel.
We, my sisters and I, sang “Bicycle Race” on the bus together. When I could feel my teeth chattering and the goosebumps were forcing shivers, it was time to break out our rendition of the song. In hindsight, singing “I want to eat a popsicle, popsicle, popsicle” was probably due to the cold, but why would a kid want a popsicle when it’s below 20 degrees?
I never knew what we were singing, I never knew what we were talking about, I never knew where the melody came from. I thought my older sister was a genius lyricist. All I knew was that once I was big enough, I got to ride the bus in first grade with my older sisters. He was already dead by then, my father who listened to Queen, but we must have held on tight, tight to the memory of his favorite song, “Bicycle Race” by Queen.
To this day, I have no idea what she was thinking, my grandmother, when she gave a five-year-old safety scissors unsupervised. I remember the sound of snipping, and I can feel the gritty net between my fingertips as it fell into the bed, and a small hole appeared. Once I could get out, I climbed on top of the net, and it completely caved in. The sound of creaking bars and a kid plummeting into their bed was rather loud, and my dad came rushing in.
It’s much harder to learn how to ride a bicycle without a father. We didn’t own bikes, we had Easy-Rollers and Razors and Emma had a Rip Stick. Our neighbors had one daughter with a big twelve-year-old’s bike, and I flagged her down one day and asked her to teach me. I was probably seven or eight, and I had just fallen flat on my stomach after going too fast on my pink Razor scooter. I had to bandage my stomach up for two weeks after that. I thought it looked like a baby had broken open my stomach.
My mother had many C-sections. We were all ripped out prematurely. She had scars, she has scars that mar her even today. My youngest sister, my half-sister, is learning how to ride a bike right now. She’s peddling her little feet, and my stepfather helps her, cheers her on. She’s the perfect age to learn, the perfect father to learn with. I am thankful every day that her father taught her how to ride a bike, the same man who taught me how to ride. Those neighbors didn’t really know how to teach the neighbor’s wild daughter how to ride such a big twelve-year-old’s bike anyways.
“Isabella Claire! What did you do!” My father’s voice was nothing but angry at that moment, once he realized I was fine and my shenanigans were getting a little too dangerous. I understand now just how quickly the military trained him to assess a threat level, and I wonder how much he had to do that with me alone. Was I a threat to myself or his sanity more, I don’t think I’ll ever know.
My stepfather re-taught me how to ride a bike when I was about 10 or 11. I was the only kid who didn’t know how to ride a bike, and I was embarrassed. My friends could ride to my friends’ houses, and I had to run to catch up with them. Then he taught me in the parking lot in front of the pool with the smell of chlorine in my nose when I fell, over and over again, I never forgot to this day how to ride.
I got too big for that bike, and when I was about 13, I got a new one. A big, red bike that belonged to my older sister, who never rode. Since it’s a Beach Bike, it doesn’t switch gears, and it has big beautiful handlebars and back brakes. I wanted to bring that bike to college with me. It would have been a beautiful sight—the long red limbs stretching out to take up all the space on the sidewalk, the cushioned seat creaking as I bounced with my backpack teetering on my back.
Next thing I knew, the scissors were yanked from my crib, my butt was stinging from a quick pop, and my father was just staring at me, mouth huffing, eyes wide, from outside my bed. In an instant, he turned around and opened my closet soundlessly. I was confused then, but now, thinking back, I’m pretty sure he was folding my laundry. I guess even the most trained individuals need to cool off sometimes.
Bicycles are originally from Germany, with the invention of the velocipede, a wood machine that required “users to push off the ground with their feet to move forward” (The History of Bicycles | 200 years of cycling). The velocipede was invented to deal with farming, however, over the next couple decades, pedals appeared on it in Scotland, although the pedals were not connected to a chain.
Without something like a chain to ground it, how would you switch gears? How would a woman who planned her whole life around a military husband and four lovely daughters switch to another way of life? I don’t think certain people are made to switch gears, but my mother didn’t miss a beat when she had to.
Queen sang about other things, like pressure. Like the weight of the world at your shoulders, and “people on streets.” Freddy Mercury had a terrible life at times, but he managed to make a whole lot of something out of nothing. He may be gone, but his songs will never die.
Once my father finished folding, or cooling off, which felt like an eternity, he turned back to me and picked me up. “I’m sorry Bella-boo,” he cooed. He rocked me for a bit in his arms, and I can still feel the warmth from him and the thick, musky scent of stiff, new khaki on him. This is one of my fondest memories of him, not because of any reason in particular about the situation, but because of the feeling I had when he held me. I felt the safest at that moment, and I knew how much he truly cared for me. You can see when something is eating someone up from the inside, and in that moment, even though I was too young to understand, I could feel his unrest and almost frantic affection for me.
My sisters and I could never be closer than we are now. Even though my closest little sister has tried to assault me with a thumbtack on numerous occasions, and just recently the littlest punched me in the face, I couldn’t ask for a better group of sisters, or a different life for us to have than we have now. Even with all the crap we’ve been through, and even with all the crap we’ve given each other, these girls are my ride-or-dies.
Riding a bicycle now is freeing in a multitude of ways. Not only does it remind me of my late father, but it reminds me of the love and community I have with my sisters and my family. I feel free on a bike, much like my father when he flew for the Air Force. I feel like I’m in control of everything on a bike, brake if there’s a car, lean to turn, and on my red Beach Bike I don’t have to worry about gears.
If I could live on a bicycle I would, but if my father were still here he would probably tell me to loosen up on the control I think I have in life. He would tell me to appreciate the wind in my hair and not to fear away from the slippery water on the pavement when it rains. Even if I lose control, he would tell me, I can still find the best in any situation and control my own reaction, because I am the only thing I truly have control over, and sometimes, I don’t even have that. His gentle soul, his love for rock ‘n roll, his effect on where my sisters and I are now will all stay with me forever. It didn’t die with him.