Author's
Note: Seeing as this is my final memoir, it's notably longer than the past
four, so prepare for a *relatively* lengthy read. The three things I'm obliged
to get out of my way are to identify my ultimate exigency, my purpose, and my
audience. First, I just want to clarify that the entire reason I’ve been
using these specific stories in my memoirs is to point out the little details
in life that can make a larger impact later on. Maybe not life-changing, but
larger. Secondly, I really wanted to reach out to people who could see the
world in a different light than its given credit for, because they tend to see
a little more clearly and realistically, and I like that. Lastly, my exigency,
which is a little harder to put into words. I want to – I need to have people see into the meticulousness of others’ lives. I
usually envision myself as a generally sheltered student, when in reality, all
of these miniature, insignificant, and beautiful adventures have happened to
me. It wasn’t a moment of necessity for me, but rather a moment of realization
for those who’ve read my memoirs.
Three,
two, one, go. Stop. Do it again – just the basics. I
could hear myself in my own head, imagining a second attempt, then a third one,
and a fourth; the consistent click-click-clicking of the faux metallic bars
circumventing in their practically radial motion, the gears switching and
lodging into place, following suit; the brakes, ready to cease all motion, to
lock it all in place - to stop everything.
Looking up beneath
the shade of my helmet, I could make out the outlines of leaves suppressing the
majority of the sun's blinding rays, but every now and then, an eloquent string
of light bounced from leaf-to-leaf, tumbling through the tree to the hundreds
of blades of grass, resting atop the earth in the green, gradient grotto below,
hiding just out of sight of the tall, oak pillars.
"Is it
recording?" beckoned a voice from behind. It was that of my departed
neighbor, Paul, holding a classic Sony video camera.
Paul was perhaps the
most generous human being I've ever met, and to be honest, I don’t think I've ever seen him not smiling. I remember back when I was a toddler in New York,
one night during an exceptionally ugly thunderstorm, I’d managed to waddle from
my house to his family’s home in a diaper, nearly a block away. I tapped feebly
on their sliding, glass door, and was greeted by Paul, smiling as usual. All I
wanted to do was jump on their trampoline.
"I don't know,
can you see a red circle?" his wife retorted.
"Oh, there we
go," he concluded, "Alright, we're ready, Erik!"
Over my shoulder, my
gaze caught up with my father, who had been standing behind me, hands fastened
perfectly on the back of the bike to maintain optimal balance. His taller
figure had forced me to cock my head backwards in order to catch a glimpse of
his face as he looked down towards me.
"Ready,
Champ?"
I nodded, and mere
moments afterwards, I had begun to feel time and space alter everything around
me: The
trees with puncturing light that landed on the sea of grass zoomed by, the
asphalt runway upon which I had been sitting seemed to pull out from under me,
the rows of houses sank into the corners of my eyes as I, a pioneer in
curiosity, had sought out to achieve faster means of transportation.
Now full of euphoric scenery, I had directed my eyesight to what lay ahead: a
lattice pattern of small, thin pines, parting a botanic sea specifically for my
presence. My hands, vice in grip on the rubber handlebars, had prepared their
whole life for this moment, or so it had seemed.
One, then two, then
four trees passed me by before I realized that my hands would not move from
their position, practically locking my direction in place. The bike's gears
roaring and chugging, it was unstoppable, whistling past even more rows of
trees that grew smaller and smaller, while simultaneously heading towards those
that had started to get larger and larger. Panicking, I had screamed out for
help! Help, anyone! I couldn't stop, I couldn't turn - I was helpless!
Inevitably, the trees
had reached their peak size, and what was once my foreign-manufactured Chariot
of Pride, soon became a dirty, matte slew of metal and rubber - a disgrace -
not only through the eyes of other bikes, but also to myself. I lay there on
the ground as the whoosh of sneakers through the grass
came to my body. An entire panorama of faces appeared within my peripheral, a
couple chuckling here, a few laughing there. Reaching out to my father's
extended arm, I was hoisted up and tried again.
It wasn't until a few
days ago that I realized that one of the first days I had ever driven a bike,
or about as much as a panicked, frozen child could drive one, was very much
akin to my life now. The world is so caught up in perfection and societal norms
that it doesn't understand exactly what it's passing. There are potentially
infinite blurs that have sped past its eyes - precious moments it had missed.
Seldom do people pick out the meticulous details of life that they didn't even
bother to identify until now. Some have gone their entire lives without a
change of pace, while many have tried time and again to improve their
experience of the beautiful journey of life. I'll never forget a quote from one
of my favorite authors:
“We
can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane.
Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or
bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves.
And maybe it's our job to invent something better.”
I simply encourage
adventure and awe, memories in risk and reward in danger, because as cliché as it truly is, life is too short
to ignore the blurs and fasten yourself to the handlebars. Falling off the bike
is that little push we all need.
