Biking is Better

An old bike, which brought lives together.

The house is littered with boxes of all shapes and sizes. Our family is moving to another home. Aside from the fact that we have lived in this house for more than three generations, the strain of living in a rural town is affecting my family’s income.

Choosing a new house at the city, my family and I are finally ready to move. For a last look, I explored the hallways of my old home until I came by a locked door to what seemed like a storage room. I frown, there are still items hidden in the room, perhaps the movers didn’t notice, or just forgotten about it.

I tried the house keys that I have on hand but nothing fit. I pondered on if I should open it, and remembered the key that my grandfather had given me. As far as I remember, the key is hidden in the hiding place that I had carved out under a loose floorboard.

Prying open the floorboard revealed assortments of papers and items. I sorted through them until I found a long lace that held a key. This was it.

I quickly walked towards the locked room and tried the key. It opened. The room was dusty, musty and dark. I struggle to open the curtains and the window. Light poured in, lighting small clouds of dust on the floor.

The illuminated room revealed knick-knacks hidden under white blankets. Removing the blankets revealed a cabinet, boxes, a dresser and a bike. There was nothing but letters in the cabinet, perhaps letters my grandfather had received concerning businesses and love letters.

Opening them, I skimmed through the page and saw that it was a love letter addressed to someone that holds my grandmother’s name. My heart panged at the sight of the words, and I remember the memories that I shared with my now deceased grandmother and grandfather.

Pictures, sketches, letters, newspaper foldings, I looked through them all, all in the curiosity of what had happened in the past. One of the pictures that caught my attention was of my two grandparents posing together side by side with the bike. I assumed that it was the rusted bike at the corner.

Examining the bike, I was dismayed to find that it was nothing but a broken piece of antique. Dust covered the flat tires and the leather seat. The paint that was now rusted showed signs of colored platinum.

“Honey?” a voice asks.

I raise my head to see my wife at the door. I smile and raise a hand. Her worried expression turned to relief as she entered the room.

“What’s this? I can’t believe we missed this room, should I get some more boxes?” She asks, looking around.

I stood up, grunting. “Perhaps we should sell some of these stuff, the apartment is already small enough.”

“What if we leave these here? I mean, we’re not gonna’ sell it.”

I pause, considering, then nod slowly. “I agree. Well, want to help me fix these?”

My wife nods and together, we cleaned the storage room, and placed them back to how I found them first. I suppose I could come back again and restore the bike.

 

Come again one year, and the bike is finally restored. It’s platinum sheen shining under the sunlight, the leather seat renewed to a vibrant black. The bike is big enough for me to ride on it.

Taking the bike on my free days, I rode it through the avenue and around the park. In the park, I came across my mother, who was visiting a friend and planned to visit us. I greet her and her eyes widen at the sight of me atop the bike.

“Why, Michael, you’ve found your grandfather’s bike?” She asked me.

“It was his?” I ask, as I strode and sat beside my mother.

She nodded. “It was really dear to him. My husband could have inherited it but my father was strict and didn’t let him. He figured that the bike would just end up at the nearby junkyard so I supposed he hid it. Where did you find the bike?”

I explained the locked room that I found while exploring the old house. My mom nodded in understanding.

“It was really dear to him,” She commented. I sat there in silence, expecting her to continue and she did. “He kept telling me stories about the bike, on how he saved up his money and rode it around when he had it in his possession. He met your grandmother that way, did you know?”

I shook my head. I barely knew and barely remember my grandparents, aside from the fun memories that I had as a child. Yet still, I never saw the bike during my childhood.

“I thought it was really romantic. Father, riding down the road, delivering newspapers every morning and mail also. He greets my mother and slowly they got to know each other and fell in love.”

My mother drawled on, and I listened quietly, letting my mind drift into imaginings of my grandfather when he was young flirting with my grandmother. My mind turned to the letters that I had found, and also the photos. Still, the bike stood out the most.

I stared the machine in front of me and patted its seat. Standing up, 

I said, “We should get going.” It’s already midday.

My mom nodded"she had stopped talking a while ago"and we both walked home.

Author's Note

Tuesdays at school is pretty busy. I only had a few amount of time to write this.
Another short story inspired by one of Wintergatan's songs Biking is Better (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t35T341NACk)