It's meant now to feed iron oxide and look unsightly

Right now it's just a pile of cromoly steel and rubber. It sits under a flight of stairs in this apartment complex, providing a new home for wandering insects and rust.

When I see it as I walk past, say, in the mornings on my way to my car to go to work, I don't think much of it. It's just a boy's bicycle. Or at least, it was.

Right?





...well, yea. Right. It was just that. And if you've ever seen an old, ruined and rusty childrens bicycle folded up in some out-of-the-way corner somewhere you know the kind of mess I'm talking about. It's not pretty; it's had its day and someone really needs to just throw it out.

You might think that there's absolutely nothing compelling to say or observe about a used and worthless bicycle with training wheels on it. You couldn't even toss it on Craigslist in hopes for a quick $10. It's that bad.


But just consider something.


The kid who rode this bike will never, ever ride another bicycle again. This isn't out of choice but necessity. The 'kid' is 16 now and smoking pot with his friends under the bleachers during lunch. He's onto bigger and more dangerous vehicles, too, those with internal combustion engines and lethal capabilities.

Rarely if ever do people kill others via bicycle collision.

His family kept the bike around for far too long and now it's been relegated to sit under that damned staircase, becoming an eyesore for every neighbor here. But I see more than that. I see a teenager who is so blinded by the novelty of pussy, fireworks, cool sunglasses and Abercrombie and Fitch that the glory and freedom offered by his bicycle is less than even a fading memory.

He doesn't even bother himself to think back to the times when he was riding that bike with his sister in tow, each holding in their small hands a popsicle gotten from one of those Mexican street vendor dudes. He forgets completely the feeling of the wind pouring through his toes and hair, cleaning his soul of any worry. Any worry that a 5 year old could have.

Long forgotten are those days. He's on to other things: STD's, trip-hop, jacking off and algebra.




But I see that bike for what it was.

I see the bolts, seat collars and cantilevers as components not just of the bike, but of that boy's youth.


A youth that is now a victim of neglect and rust, dying softly with no ones notice but my own.