My first bike was blue. Sadly, it’s not because I possess any faded Polaroid where I’m rockin’ a, “On My Way to Grandpa’s House…”, t-shirt or possess grandiose flashbacks of my crew and I tearing up the mean streets at age 3. I only know this because the blurry memory of a tiny sliver of paint.

I’m lying on a side walk, or so the memory goes, fixated on this loooong piece of turquoise-ish paint just dangling off the chain-link fence like a wind chime in a slight breeze. It was at eye level, just a 2 or 3 inches off the ground considering my present state, hanging off a jagged weld in the third link up from the hard concrete.  It was backlit by a warm West Texas setting sun that had just begun its dip between my neighbor and our “tissue box” style houses, the type commonly associated with these deserted Air Force base turned family enclaves. I remember the dimming light caused the twisted tail of blue to appear almost translucent as I had to constantly adjust my focus to avert the glare prodding at me through the blades of malnourished crabgrass.  End memory.

My father’s recollection of this same situation is of course slightly different. In his version, I took off on it like a rocket driven by a crazed child who’d eaten a gallon of Gummy Bears before he could even begin the lesson. Of course, my inaugural flight was to only span 5 feet before clipping a training wheel on said fence. Thus began the grating of my trusty cobalt steed, not to mention the right side of its pilot, like aged Swiss until politely ceased by smacking the pavement.

I prefer mine, thank you.

Words and images by Dustin Downing