A fist bump with my 8-year-old self
I was just finishing a Clif bar in the shade by the railroad tracks, a hard 27 miles in and I was already out of gas. A boy about 8 rolled up next to me on his mountain bike.
Are you the mailman?
No. (In his defense, my kit was blue and gray.)
What are you doing?
I’m just out for a bike ride.
I’ve got a bike, too! Fist bump!
We bumped fists and I told him to be careful and watch for cars. He took off, yelling over his shoulder “I like your bike!”
I smiled for the next few miles and wondered if someday he’ll realize he can still ride a bike as an adult and have every bit as much fun as he did when he was 8. Maybe he’ll rediscover that joy sooner than I did. Or never forget it in the first place.