I wouldn’t call a joy ride on a pocket bike a traditional Thanksgiving activity, but this is my family we’re talking about.
Thanksgiving weekend was beautiful — expanded bellies excepted, of course. The sun was pretending it was still summer, creating the perfect atmosphere for a spin around the block.
My cousin Mark obtained a pocket bike from a friend who said it was broken. (In his case, not knowing how to start the engine is considered broken.)
I watched my other boy cousin take a spin, followed by my brother, and was immediately consumed by envy.
So when Mark turned to the girls to see if we wanted to try, they shook their heads, saying they were “scared.” Then I stepped forward.
Within seconds, I was flying down the street, wind whipping through my hair and the bike’s motor so thunderous that surely all the neighbours within a five-block radius must have been muttering something about getting these damn kids off their lawns.
I never really understood the appeal of motorcycles. Even though it was just a little pocket bike, I experienced an unusual freedom and even — dare I say it? — a sense of power that you don’t quite get on a regular bike. At least, that’s how I felt. And it was awesome.
