When I was 9 years old, I proudly acquired my very first Trek/Fisher bicycle. It was a sight to behold, adorned in glorious red with pink streamers flowing in the wind. Now, some may argue that red and pink clash, but those who dared to criticize faced the wrath of our biker gang. Our gang consisted of my 7-year-old brother, his friend Shane Petrie, also 7, and my loyal friend Candice, who was 9.
Just like every gang, we started out with matching spit-applied washable tattoos and a top-secret gang sign. Our signature move involved a series of fist bumps, followed by a handshake and a revving of an imaginary throttle. We were known as the “Redondo Riders,” and we were on a mission.
Riding through the streets, we maneuvered our chunky road bikes with the precision of synchronized rollerskaters, the kind you would find up at Venice Beach. We were a force to be reckoned with, even managing to intimidate Mr. Fiddle, who thought he was the epitome of coolness with his real tattoos and motorbike. Little did he know what he was up against.
In an act of rebellion, we once stole his cat, that mangy little creature Gizmo, and held it hostage in our barn, determined to give it a much-needed haircut and send a message to Mr. Fiddle. Perhaps, upon seeing a properly trimmed Gizmo, he’d be inspired to clean up his neglected, untamed lawn and pick up the beer cans that littered his porch. However, our plan didn’t go as well as expected. Gizmo returned to Mr. Fiddle with a few missing fur chunks, and all four of us were covered in bites and scratches; that funny Mr. Fiddle simply laughed.
Undeterred, we tried every trick to annoy him. We attached rookie playing cards to our bike spokes, producing an incessant flicking sound as we rode past his house at the crack of dawn. We even resorted to dropping chestnuts on the road, hoping they would puncture his tires. Alas, nothing seemed to faze him.
However, destiny had a different plan in store. One day, Mr. Fiddle unexpectedly found a new love interest and moved to Albuquerque. With his departure, the Redondo Riders disbanded and went their separate ways, eventually venturing off to college, leaving our biker gang days behind. We thought nothing of it until one day, two fists bumped and a handshake later, we realized it was time to reclaim our rebellious spirit and hit the open road once more for a ride to Tuscon, then New Mexico.
Prompt: A precarious choreography of bicycles.