How I went from 80 to 8 in moments!

 

How I went from 80 to 8 in moments!

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 I’d mulled this notion for a year. Everybody bicycles around here. When I first moved here, more people used bikes than drove cars. Then, seemingly overnight, cars proliferated. Now that parking is near to impossible, more people have dusted off their bicycles.

I checked several bike shops in town. Nobody had what I wanted. With the words from Queen bouncing through my brain and out my mouth, “Tricycle, tricycle, I want to ride my tricycle. I want to ride my trike. I want to ride my tricycle. I want to ride it where I like,” I ordered a gorgeous orange tricycle with a perfect basket in back for Lola to ride along like the queen she thinks she is.

I don’t intend to take my trike to town, much as I like the thought. I bought it to ride the lanes here on the rancho, nice flat lanes.

Eight days for delivery—it arrived in three! I’m not stupid. I hauled it to one of the town shops for the Bike Man to assemble. I’m no fan of instructions translated from Chinese to either English or Spanish by Artificial Intelligence. It’s hard enough to put something together when translations are guessed out by real people.

The following afternoon, while I was out walking my Lola Dog, Leo drove into the rancho in his pickup, my orange trike in back. That part of the lane runs through a nice flat, though very small, “field”. Leo unloaded my bike. I parked my walking sticks in the basket and had a series of instant realizations as I lifted my leg to climb onto the seat.

The seat was too short. We adjusted it as tall as it would safely go.

I must buy sneakers, pronto. One should not ride a self-powered vehicle in open sandals, slides or flip-flops, which are all that I own.

I have never used gears. My bicycle was the simple kind. I could not find a simple kind of trike, so thus, mine is geared.

And, what are brakes doing on the handlebars. Brakes are for feet.

I’m in for a learning curve. Nevertheless, I climbed on and wobbled up and around and back and around, wibble, wobble, wow.

Instantly, I was transported back in time to my eighth birthday. My Dad bought me a real bicycle. He ran alongside me as I wobbled on the lane between the barn and the house, holding me upright until I could hold it myself. That afternoon, I could feel my Dad’s hands on the back of the trike seat. I could smell him, faintly redolent of Camel cigarettes and good sweat and laundry soap.

Yep, I will have to learn how to ride all over again. I searched my memory. I’ve not rode a bicycle since I was 18. Next week I’ll endure my 81^st birthday. Oh, my.

First, I will go to town and buy sneakers. Next, I’ll stop at the bike shop and buy a longer post for the seat. Then, I’ll climb on, ask my Dad for help, and wobble until I don’t need to wobble. This will take the time it will take.

Once I’ve mastered balance, I may need to find a more sophisticated bike shop in Guadalajara. I may need a pair of those skin-tight bike shorts, you know the kind I mean. I’m thinking of cobalt blue with yellow stripes. Oh, and a matching top, which means I will also want a padded push-up bra, you know, for definition. And I’ll need one of those water-bottle thingies with a hose to your mouth, and a bike helmet.

Maybe my bike helmet should have a built in telephone in case I crash and need to call the ambulancia. Also, perhaps, one of those SMV triangles.

Sondra Ashton

HWC: Looking out my back door

April 2, 2026

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