Chapter 9: The Bike
Saturday morning, we drove to the bike shop.
Jake had done his research, which surprised no one.
He'd spent the week reading reviews, watching videos, comparing components.
He had a shortlist of three models in his price range and a set of questions ready for the staff.
The guy who helped us was maybe twenty-five, with grease on his hands and the kind of enthusiasm for bicycles that made you feel like you'd been missing out your whole life.
Jake asked his questions.
The guy answered them seriously, without talking down to him.
They went back and forth for a while about gear ratios and frame weight and trail geometry, and I stood to the side and let it happen.
Eventually Jake settled on a bike.
It was slightly above the three hundred and forty dollars Gary had paid.
He made up the difference from his own savings without being asked.
While the staff adjusted the seat height, Jake ran his hand along the top tube.
"It's better than the last one," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Better components.
Lighter frame." He looked up.
"I did more research this time."
"Of course you did."
The staff member handed him the helmet he'd also picked out, and Jake put it on and buckled it without prompting.
We rolled the bike out to the parking lot.
Jake swung his leg over and sat on the seat, both feet still on the ground, just feeling the weight of it.
"Dad."
"Yeah."
"Thank you for letting me handle it."
I looked at him sitting there in the Saturday morning sun, helmet on, hands on the grips, looking like himself again.
"Thank you for handling it," I said.
He pushed off and rode one slow loop around the parking lot, testing the gears, testing the brakes.
Then he came back and stopped in front of me.
"Can we ride the trail by the park on the way home?"
"We didn't bring your old bike."
"I know." He looked at the new one.
"I meant this one."
I looked at the bike rack on the car, then at the trail that ran along the back edge of the park two blocks from our house.
"We'd have to drive home first, get my bike—"
"Or," Jake said, "you could just run alongside."
I stared at him.
He grinned.
Full, unguarded, twelve years old.
"I'm kidding," he said.
"Mostly."
I shook my head and opened the car.
He lifted the bike in himself, careful with it, and buckled his seatbelt.
On the drive home, he was quiet for a while.
Then:
"Dad?"
"Yeah."
"Next time something like this happens — to me or to someone else — I'm going to know what to do."
I kept my eyes on the road.
"I know you will," I said.
He looked out the window.
The neighborhood rolled past — Donna's house, Phil's fence, Gary's driveway, quiet in the morning light.
"Good," Jake said.
And he meant it.
---
Sometimes the person who teaches you the most about standing up for yourself is the one you thought you were protecting.
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