My Mom’s a biker
Anne-Lise - yeah it’s high time you were on first name basis with your Mom - always liked to ride a bike so long as it didn’t get too hilly, specially upwardly. Who doesn’t like a downhill ride, the wind whizzing wildly in your hair. She learned how to ride a tricycle before I can remember, and as soon as she got on two wheels only, she whirled around in our garage. We’d built a whole station service out of cardboxes left over from our recent move, and my sister and I used to remember the garage as an immense space, where we could play hide and go seek. It was big enough anyway for us to bike. And in a city where rain is what you mostly get from above (apart from pigeon missiles), the garage shelter was most welcome.
When she was nine, she had a minor glitch while riding her green bike. I remember that day distinctly. We’d just moved again, to a new house in a cul-de-sac and my sister was biking around on the sidewalk when she leened a wee bit too close to our house wall and scratched her right arm very badly.
The rest of that day is a blur. I can remember my Dad taking my sister - your Mom - away to the hospital to have her arm checked. It turned out to be a scratch no more. Nonetheless, to this day, she still has a small, barely noticeable scar.
