Photo courtesy of [luis]/Flickr
When I was around six years old my aggressive, insanely-coordinated, triathlete mother taught me how to ride a bike. It was intense and scary, like pretty much any other sports-related experience with her.
“Stop crying and put your face in the water. You’ll float fine.”
“Don’t be a weenie. The ball won’t hurt you.”
“You need to learn how to get your skis back on by yourself because I’m not going to help you if you fall.”
The whole time I was trying to balance on two wheels and not end my roll down the street in a tangle of gravel and spokes, I had one recurring daydream:
I wanted to ride my bike down my neighbor’s moss-covered hill.
Their house was perched on a hill just like ours and they had landscaped their front lawn into a quarter-acre of bumpy moss. It looked springy and incredibly soft and I was sure that, given the chance, a bike ride down it would be just about heaven. BECAUSE EVEN IF I FELL IT WOULDN’T HURT.
The bike ride never happened but I still like moss. A lot.
Eric in SF/Flickr