The front wheel of my bike is bent, the handlebars are twisted, and my heart’s racing.Â
It was a textbook error. The old tramlines in the middle of the road have a devastating effect on bike wheels. Approaching them too slowly and at the wrong angle sees you folded over on the side of the road like us.Â
I’m straddling the bike frame, straining to keep it upright while in the rear seat Maala wails, from shock or pain I’m not sure. A car pulls over to help. Together we lift the bike up and I check on Maala. A scraped elbow is the worst of it. The sting of which she’s only starting to feel as the shock wears off.Â
Bike rides have become a welcome ritual over the last few years. In the early days of the pandemic, when shelter-in-place rules kept everyone hemmed into apartments and six feet away from each other, riding was the perfect antidote.Â
In those New York days, we’d load up the bike with snacks and a speaker before exploring as much of the concrete jungle before Maala’s mid-morning nap.Â
Some days we’d ride over the Williamsburg Bridge, into the East Village, and all the way up to Central Park. The quiet of the early morning slowly receded the further uptown we rode. By the time we reached the park, it was buzzing with walkers, runners, dogs, bikers, and everyone in between.Â
On other days we’d stay in Brooklyn. We’d ride through Williamsburg to the very edge of Greenpoint, where we’d sit in the grass overlooking Manhattan and eat snacks, sip coffee and take pictures (above). Or we’d head south along the East River, through the Hasidic Jewish neighborhoods to Fort Greene and Carroll Gardens, rolling up and down the streets with brownstone mansions.Â
Riding for the sake of riding.Â
We always finished at the same place: the coffee shop on our block. We’d order coffee and croissants and sit in the sun where I’d often just stare at Maala and, like any other parent, think about how fast she was growing up.Â
One of the many gifts of having kids is that even ordinary moments can feel special if you’re paying attention. Milestones come in all forms but it’s up to you to notice them. Â
Today, in Philadelphia, as we’re recovering from our first bike crash, our final destination is the same as in New York: We’re riding to the coffee shop. A boutique place in Fishtown owned by good friends, Kai and Sawyer.Â
Upon arriving at the shop, Maala retells the story of the crash in broken toddler-speak while proudly showing the boys her scraped elbow. As per usual, she shares the unnecessary details that only a child’s mind can recall and veers off into meaningless tangents before abruptly ending the story mid-thought.Â
I sip my espresso and lean back against the wall. My attention is split between listening to Maala and the sharp pain that’s intensifying in my shoulder from when I slammed into the side door of the parked SUV.Â
One day I’ll remember this, I think to myself.
Maybe I’ll even write about it.