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Short Story / Bike (Analysis)
Sometimes there are things that we say – things that we do – that grow bigger as time passes. Sometimes our actions and words ripple out through time and cause waves that jostle and bounce us years after they were done or spoken. Sometimes the seeds of word and deed grow into something greater and more beautiful than could ever be imagined…
When I was kid we didn’t have a lot. In fact, even that is a bit of an exaggeration – we barely had anything. Dad worked hard, but he would have had to work 20 hours a day to give my mother, my four sisters and my three brothers everything that we wanted. Times were hard for us. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t ever remember going hungry or having to walk to school with holes in the soles of my shoes. Yes, there were sometime holes in my clothes, but any tears or rips that there were usually was the result of some sports related incident or perhaps from a wrestling match out on the playground. There was just no way that my mother could keep up with all of the repairs our clothes needed, but she always tried. During my years growing up, we might not have been given everything that we wanted, but almost always we got what we needed.
You know, as I’ve grown older and have my own family, I often look back at those days with amazement and admiration at how much my mom and dad did with so little. Now, I know I’m not the only guy you’ve ever heard talk about how poor he was as a kid and how much he respects and is even a bit in awe of his parents for the way they managed. That’s not really the point of this story.
Really, I just want to tell you a little story about something that happened to me when I was young. It’s a story that might tell you a little bit about my dad. It might tell you something about me too. Or maybe it won’t tell you anything – I don’t know. All I know is that this is a story that I want to share with you.
From the time I was 6 years old, I only ever remember wanting one thing for Christmas – a bike. I wanted a two-wheeler like most of my buddies had – a bicycle that I could go riding on with my friends. A bike that I could take out into the countryside after school and on weekends exploring the back roads and hills and valleys that surrounded the little town where I lived. And so in my younger years, every Christmas, I would write my letter to Santa and ask him for a new bike. I didn’t care about what make it was or what colour it was – I just desperately hoped to find a bicycle under that tree.
Every Christmas morning from that early age on, I would get up at sunrise and rush into the living room to look under the tree. Now, a bike is a difficult thing to disguise, no matter how creative you get with the wrapping paper, so I could tell almost immediately that there was no two-wheeler under the Christmas tree. Sometimes there were clothes, or a toy of some kind or maybe a game, but there was never any bike. And every year I tried to hide my disappointment. I would smile and try on the new coat or play with the new toy. Mom and Dad would watch us all – smiles on their faces as they watched their family in the throes of Christmas joy – eyes looking into eyes – hearts looking into hearts. Always, I would try to hide my disappointment. And always, my parents would pretend that they didn’t see any…
As I grew older, my thoughts of riding a bike through our town slowly disappeared. Christmases came and went and, as they tend to do with the young, my dreams changed. Eventually they were replaced by other thoughts – by other wants. By the time I was in my mid-teens, my mind had turned to other things.
My dream of owning a new bike was gone forever.
Then one Christmas morning when I was sixteen years old, all the presents had been opened and the wrapping paper had been bundled up and put in the garbage, my dad sat down beside me. He had a strange smile on his face and a little light in his eyes that I didn’t quite recognize.
“I think there might be one more present around here somewhere.” he said smiling.
I looked up and him.
Getting up from the couch, he walked over to the door leading outside. “Well, are you comin’, son?”
He led me outside and took me around the corner to the back of the house. He looked at me smiling.
There, leaning against the wall, was a brand new bicycle – shiny red – chrome handlebars and fenders – a book carrier over the rear wheel – the works.
I molded my face into a giant smile, and looked up at my dad not quite knowing what to say. “Wow!” was the only measly word I could muster.
“Well, what do you think, son? You think that’ll get the job done?”
I forced my smile wider. I knew how much effort it must have taken to save the money. I knew how much work and sacrifice it took. “It sure will. Dad. Thanks!”
“I know that you’ve wanted one for a long time now, son. I hope you’re not too old to get some use out of it.”
“N-n-nooo, I’m not too old, Dad. It’s perfect. Thank you!” And without looking at him, I pushed my bike down the sidewalk and out onto the street.
* *
The years went by. I grew into an adult and journeyed down the path that life laid out before me. By the time I was in my late twenties, I was married and had two children. I moved across the ocean to Canada and started a life of my own. As I grew older, my family grew and my new country became my home. Over the years I made it a point to go back and visit my parents as often as I could. Each time I visited, I was a little troubled by how my parents were aging. Maybe I was sad for them – or maybe I was sad for me because their getting older was also a reflection of me aging. It seems that often, the things that we see in others are simply reflections of the things we see in ourselves.
In my father’s later years, his mind began to disappear piece by piece. Alzheimer’s. Talking to him on the telephone was occasionally a bit of a crapshoot. Sometimes he would know me and other times he wouldn’t. Our conversations, during his good spells, would often drift back to the “good old days” of my childhood. Memories of family gatherings, or of my brothers and sisters growing up or of the few holidays we managed to take filled many of our chats. Sometimes though his thoughts would wander. They would be disjointed and incoherent and weave in and out of reality. He would talk to me of things that were no doubt real and logical in his mind, but to me – well, to me – they just broke my heart. For me these conversations were cruel reminders of the man he once was but would no longer be.
* *
It was Christmas morning and I had called Mom and Dad to wish them the best of the season. Dad wasn’t having a good day. During our talk that morning, I wasn’t sure whether or not he even knew it was me he was talking to. Sometimes he would call me by his brother’s name – sometimes he would refer to things that happened in his childhood and talk about them like I was somehow involved – sometimes I just didn’t know what he was talking about. I could feel myself getting more emotional – my voice thickening. My dad was disappearing memory by memory in front of my eyes and there wasn’t a single thing that I could do about it. Tears welled in my eyes as we talked. I remember thinking – “I just want my Daddy back. I just want him back.”
Our conversation was coming to an end. We had run out of things to say. Nothing was just making any sense. Not my Dad – not life – not anything.
“I’d better get going here, Dad. I’d better let you go.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I still wasn’t really sure if he knew it was me.
“Goodbye Dad. Merry Christmas.” I whispered.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. I thought maybe he’d forgotten what he was doing – forgotten that he was talking on the phone. I waited – trying my best not to think at all.
“Son?”
“Yes Dad?”
A few more seconds of silence…
“That was some bike, huh?”
Emotion rippled over me. Memories flooded through my being – recollections of that Christmas so long ago. My heart was breaking and was full of pride all at the same time.
Taking a deep breath – not wanting him to know that I was crying – “Yeah Dad. It sure was. That was really some bike.”
“Some bike.” He whispered before I heard the click of the phone as he hung up.
I stood there for a few minutes. Remembering. Smiling. Crying. Wondering. Humbled. And then wiping away the tears from my eyes, I swallowed hard and walked back into the living room where my family was gathered – laughing and joking as they opened their presents in front of the Christmas tree…
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thisisnotanexit reviewed Version 1 -
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there is a kind of deft awareness of cliche throughout this that gives it a real weight. it seems that you know where the boundary lies, and can avoid it with great care – this results in something that has powerful emotional resonance, born of the fact that it isn’t mawkish. nothing is overdone. the prose is careful and measured, and accrues a grace throughout because of this. there’s a nice little clutch of parallel constructions at the end of the paragraph that begins ‘Every Christmas morning…’ – but it’s effective because the rest is so restrained.
elsewhere, the conversational tone is very effective. it’s engagingly immediate, and the occasional one-word sentences add to overall coherence of the method. the effective dismissal of the first two paragraphs – ‘That’s not really the point of this story’ – brings the reader up short, too. why go to the trouble of setting a context, calmly and unhurriedly, if it isn’t the point? then, of course it becomes clear.
there are one or two very slight issues with punctuation – just a comma needed here and there, though by and large it’s exemplary in terms of spelling, grammar and so forth. i might perhaps suggest that the middle section seems a little too much of a hurry of exposition, although i couldn’t say whether a demonstrative incident here would ruin the balance of the piece. if, as i suspect, you have stuck rigorously to the truth throughout, this might be the place to blur that a little. if this is fiction, then i am doubly impressed. if not, though, your abilities as a prose writer to capture events and character in a quiet, resonant manner remain commendable.
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perfectlypep reviewed Version 1 -
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You definately have a way with words. The reader develops an instant affinity for the main character – for me it was the humble, “aw shucks” manner in which he was conveyed. He had me intersted in his story from the lines:
“It’s a story that might tell you a little bit about my dad. It might tell you something about me too. Or maybe it won’t tell you anything – I don’t know. All I know is that this is a story that I want to share with you.”
The story is very tightly constructed and well written. It was easy to follow and the emotions of the characters were very easy to feel. The ending created a warm feeling – somehow you knew that despite the ravages that Alzheimer’s would bring that the father in hus heart would ALWAYS know his son.
Thank you for sharing! Well done!
poetking reviewed Version 1 -
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good base line on your story, just re-read it yourself, the best is yet to come from you as a writer, you have your own style and that’s make’s for a good author
bittersweetmemory reviewed Version 1 -
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you took me all the way back home… to me, a bike meant freedom… the wind on my face as i raced to “anywhere else”...
thank you for sharing this incredible story… i am better for having read it.
asiantofu reviewed Version 1 -
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You evoked the emotion of the narrator very well. It as quite poignant, and plaudits for that. Your story adequately illustrates the effects of memory loss and Alzheimer’s.
Just a few things, I suppose. The narrator alludes to no longer wanting the bike, but he does not go on to elaborate what happened after he got the bike. Did it ride it to please his parents, since they worked so hard for it? Was he guilty? Did he eventually end up enjoying it?
I realize that this story is mostly about his father’s condition afterwards, but adding some detail about that would add another dimension to his father’s mentioning it so many years later. In addition (this is actually kind of picky), since this is a relatively short story, the asterisks are probably unnecessary, as it is easy to notice the time transition from simply what you wrote in paragraph starting in the narrator’s present.
Good work, though. Keep it up.
MikelsCycles reviewed Version 1 -
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This is a very endearing piece. Its written in the exact way it would be told out loud, which is appropriate for this kind of story. You could go without a paragraph or two at the beginning, but other than that it was a very easy read.
lluuiiissaa reviewed Version 1 -
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although the fact that he’d get a bike eventually was obvious, it was still kind of bittersweet when he got it. you did a good job describing him as he didnt want it as bad anymore but he still was very thankful for it. i absolutely loooved the line about the reflections in other people…its so true. the dad getting alzheimers was heartberaking but the real gut wrencher was the mention of the bike. it seems like there are gaps missing to the story but it doesnt really take away from it.
PrincesswriterC reviewed Version 1 -
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Dear Sir, What a great story. Tears welled in my eyes as I came to the ending. Very well written, thought out and you did a great job of reading this account out loud to make certain it was understandable before you sent it to us, the reader.
If there was one thing I feel would improve it, is the introduction was a bit long, and rambled. I felt you could have been more succinct in telling us the financial condition of the family. I was getting bored with the redundancy. Though I am thrilled I kept reading. Other than that, well done dear writer, well done.
Smile,
Princess
Supernatural1 reviewed Version 1 -
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i gave you all 10s on this story. i wanted to cry. i have only praise for this story. i think it’s wonderful. great job!!!
wisedec4u reviewed Version 1 -
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I thought this was a beautiful heartwarming story that made me want cry and smile all at the same time. I’m not sure if this is a true story or a work of fiction, either way I can tell it was written from the heart. I know we’re suppose to tell you how we would improve your work, but truthfully I think that it is wonderful the way it is. The ending where your father remembered the bike he given you so many years ago was perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing. Great job! I would love to read more from you.
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