LAURA JIN MAZZARO
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GO BACK INSIDE
When I was five years old, I got a pink bicycle, a hand-me-down from one of my sisters. I wanted to become a professional cyclist. One day, I took my bike out to our building’s parking lot. It was early, but the tropical air was already thick and salty. I hopped on my bike and began riding. I zigzagged along every row of parked cars, launched down a small ramp that ended with a sharp right turn, zigzagged some more, and rode up the ramp to start all over again. I tried to lean my bike to the side as cyclists did on TV. The temperature was rising. In the afternoon, my mom yelled from the fifth-floor apartment window, calling at me to eat something. After two bites of a sandwich and a sip of water, I ran back to work. The next thing I knew, my hand was laying on something wet. I opened my eyes and saw my speed ramp, sideways. I was laying on a puddle of car oil in an empty parking spot. My bike was on the ground. My knee was covered in blood and oil. I screamed. My older sister brought me upstairs. “I fell asleep on the ramp,” I said. “I told you to eat more,” my mom reprimanded me as she scrubbed the car oil from my scratches. I always wanted to explore nature. As a child, I’d spend recess alone, in the bushes, pretending that my metal ruler was a machete. A child therapist asked, “If you could do anything, what would it be?” I answered, “I’d ride my bike in nature.” That was called bicicleta de montaña, she explained. Later on, as a teen, I’d explore small pieces of forest between buildings in my hometown, imagining that I wasn’t in the middle of a city. After work, I change into my biking clothes and shimmy my bike out of the trunk of my Honda Civic. Several men walk by, each one asking if I need help. “No, thanks,” “No, thanks,” “No, thanks.” I ride to the narrow dirt trail behind a café. My front tire wiggles back and forth as small rocks try to throw me off balance. I start softly singing one of the made-up songs that have been stuck in my head for a few years now: “At first I was afraid, I was petrified. I kept thinking I could never ride without you by my side.” I try to ride up a rocky step, but my cheap suspension bounces me back and I fall
Santa Fe Literary Review
7
