Look, let me start with this: leaving home was tough. I knew it was time for me to move on. I had been at Spinsleyan for three years, learning the craft of turning my wheels and adjusting to balance. But it was still hard to leave home. I also knew I had to contribute to my home and that I was ready.
I had a plan. Like most bikes, I wanted to serve the community. I wanted to help people transport themselves around campus, and I wanted to help people’s commutes. My plan was to outperform my peers; I wanted to be the most helpful. So, I knew I had no time for love. But I was wrong.
I met him at Red and Black. He was the perfect shade of blinding orange, and he smelled like he just rode down foss. The rider propped him against me, and there was a chill down my spikes when the wheel locked. We exchanged wheel glances––so scandalous, I know––and we began talking. His name was 23. I introduced myself as 19, and I could feel my wheel deflating from worry. Here was this beautiful bike, talking to me? I couldn’t believe it. It was almost as if–
23’s wheel unlocks. Is that some football bro who wants to ride him uphill? He can’t. There’s no way. It’s too steep, and the gears couldn’t handle it. 23 gives me a last look. Will I ever see him again? For now, I’m just hoping someone will bring me back to campus.