Flat Tires
By Lauren Griffith
It was the first day of spring. A day only meant for one thing—breaking out the bicycle from the dark depths of the garage, where it had been hiding for months.
When we were young, this was our Mustang, except we hadn’t yet learned to care for it like our fathers did with theirs. Sure, we gave it the annual wash with the garden hose trodden with mud, but that was only to get all the cobwebs and their tenants out from underneath and in between the crevices of the molten metal.
We got so excited at the sight of our carriages, of our rocket-ships to the moon, that we forgot that they rode on rubber that had gone flat over the long winter months without any use. We still hopped right on them, only to realize that these bikes wouldn’t carry us to the moon—not on this slumped rubber, anyway.
So, we threw them into the dirt and ran, tripping over our own feet, to our fathers.
Before the words had even left our lips, our fathers had guessed what we were going to say. They knew that we wouldn’t make it far on those flat tires, no more than to the end of the block. As we crouched beside them, eager to see the magic that was about to take place, they popped off the cap to the tire. Hot air started to rush out of the tires, but before long there wasn’t much left. By that time, Dad had secured the air pump and capped off the leaking valve underneath. With a few
gargantuan pushes and pumps, the tires began to rise, one-by-one, as we watched them. As we pushed down with all of the strength our tiny arms could muster, we were assured that they were full of air that would carry us on for miles.
We grabbed old t-shirts, tags, and towels to dry them down, pretended to wipe off wax that wasn’t there. As we polished the pieces, we somehow always forgot to dry off the seat, a problem that could only be discovered once sat upon. With wet bottoms and white-knuckles wrapped around the handlebars, we were ready to
ride until the sunset—or until we were called home, whichever one came first.
We wouldn’t get far before the bruises and scrapes caught up with us on our knuckles and our knees, followed by the stream of tears falling from our faces.
As we ran back as fast as our injured bodies could carry us, our wounds were covered in kisses and band-aids, and maybe even a little peroxide, but nothing soothed the hurt like those Band-Aids with our favorite characters on them.
A little while later we walked back to where we had left off, and walked alongside our bicycles all the way home. We couldn’t yet force ourselves to jump back on
the saddle that had thrown us off. If we were lucky, Dad’s feet carried the both of us back to the shed, where we put the bikes and our dreams down for the rest
for the day. Tomorrow we would be just as eager to pick them back up and carry them with us, but for now we were tired. The sun and our struggles had worn us
out for the day. We retired back to our beds, and slumped under the comfort of soft sheets.
When we were young, this was our Mustang, except we hadn’t yet learned to care for it like our fathers did with theirs. Sure, we gave it the annual wash with the garden hose trodden with mud, but that was only to get all the cobwebs and their tenants out from underneath and in between the crevices of the molten metal.
We got so excited at the sight of our carriages, of our rocket-ships to the moon, that we forgot that they rode on rubber that had gone flat over the long winter months without any use. We still hopped right on them, only to realize that these bikes wouldn’t carry us to the moon—not on this slumped rubber, anyway.
So, we threw them into the dirt and ran, tripping over our own feet, to our fathers.
Before the words had even left our lips, our fathers had guessed what we were going to say. They knew that we wouldn’t make it far on those flat tires, no more than to the end of the block. As we crouched beside them, eager to see the magic that was about to take place, they popped off the cap to the tire. Hot air started to rush out of the tires, but before long there wasn’t much left. By that time, Dad had secured the air pump and capped off the leaking valve underneath. With a few
gargantuan pushes and pumps, the tires began to rise, one-by-one, as we watched them. As we pushed down with all of the strength our tiny arms could muster, we were assured that they were full of air that would carry us on for miles.
We grabbed old t-shirts, tags, and towels to dry them down, pretended to wipe off wax that wasn’t there. As we polished the pieces, we somehow always forgot to dry off the seat, a problem that could only be discovered once sat upon. With wet bottoms and white-knuckles wrapped around the handlebars, we were ready to
ride until the sunset—or until we were called home, whichever one came first.
We wouldn’t get far before the bruises and scrapes caught up with us on our knuckles and our knees, followed by the stream of tears falling from our faces.
As we ran back as fast as our injured bodies could carry us, our wounds were covered in kisses and band-aids, and maybe even a little peroxide, but nothing soothed the hurt like those Band-Aids with our favorite characters on them.
A little while later we walked back to where we had left off, and walked alongside our bicycles all the way home. We couldn’t yet force ourselves to jump back on
the saddle that had thrown us off. If we were lucky, Dad’s feet carried the both of us back to the shed, where we put the bikes and our dreams down for the rest
for the day. Tomorrow we would be just as eager to pick them back up and carry them with us, but for now we were tired. The sun and our struggles had worn us
out for the day. We retired back to our beds, and slumped under the comfort of soft sheets.
About the Author
Hello, my name is Lauren Griffith. I am a sophomore here at Cal majoring in English with a Journalism concentration. A fun fact about me is that I am an identical twin.