I had some rough Christmases as a kid. But when my family moved back in with my grandparents there was one Christmas that seemed magical. I was in the third grade at the time, and I got to have that moment of coming downstairs to see two bikes under the tree — one for my brother and the other for me. I couldn't even ride a bike at the time, but the possibility was overwhelmingly exciting.
Those were the days when kids got on their bikes and rode off alone. We lived in Plainfield, New Jersey, which wasn't necessarily the safest area. I didn't care. That bike was the symbol of freedom and possibility. I often went off on my own into the middle of town, looking for snacks but with little understanding of how traffic lights worked. One afternoon the inevitable happened: I was hit by a car and thrown from my bike. Someone called an ambulance but I refused to go for fear of getting in trouble, and ran away with blood dripping down my leg, dragging my bike and its bent wheel. I never even told that story to anyone in my family until I was well into my 30s.
