I still remember how I got the tricycle. I was about seven years old. My parents gave it to me for Christmas in 2007. The night before, snowfall and freezing rain had iced the streets, giving the roadways a shiny glare as if God himself had paved them with aluminum.
“I don’t care; he’s gonna ride the thing,” my dad said
The green bike smoldered like kryptonite against the fresh snow. Excited, I watched as my dad cleared the driveway, leaving only a thin layer of ice over the asphalt.
“I’ve never seen a tricycle quite like this, kiddo; it’s huge!”
Stumbling in my boots, I ran over to my father and embraced him, “Thank you, Dad!”
“It was all your mom, kid; go thank her!”
I looked at her behind the screen door in the entryway.
“Go play!” she shouted.
I hopped on the tricycle, placed my feet on the pedals, and began to move in circles.
“There you go, honey!” my mom exclaimed.
“The Big Green Machine!” my dad said, flexing his arms like Superman.
***
When I got the Big Green Machine, most of my friends had already graduated to bicycles with training wheels. Jacob’s mom would drive us to the middle school every weekend and let us ride around the grassy hills near Jordan Street. There was this one hill my dad jokingly called Kilimanjaro. Jacob, Max, Cliff, and Owen, along with me, would all try to scale the hill with our bikes. I was a small kid with quick reflexes, and despite sitting in a three-wheeler, I always went furthest up the slope.
“You guys can’t beat me, and I don’t even have a bike yet!”
“Just you wait – the trainers slow me down,” Owen said.
For a while, I wanted nothing more than to scale Kilimanjaro. I would beg my mom to let me practice on the weekdays, telling her I wouldn’t finish my homework unless she let me ride. I was going to climb the mountain, and I was going to do it on three wheels.
***
I hated Cliff’s stupid superhero bike. Cliff was the first one of us to lose the training wheels. As a reward, he got his dad’s vintage bike from the 80s plastered with graphic illustrations of Batman. Not long after, Cliff was the first of us to make it up the hill. I’ll never forget peddling alongside him – realizing my tricycle had no juice left – and watching as Cliff slipped under the horizon. Like a Sherpa who had tried his luck one too many times, I fell backward down the hill and cried.
***
It was not long before the rest of my friends got real bikes. I would watch them ride up the hill and tumble down joyfully, shouting in excitement.
“I need a real bike, Dad.”
“You wanna try riding mine?”
The bike was larger than Cliff’s Batman bike; it was gray and turquoise and had large, textured wheels I could fit my torso through. I couldn’t find my balance on it. When I put my feet on the pedals and stretched my groin to straddle the seat, I felt the whole world shake. I wobbled down the driveway, lost control, and veered into the street. The bike toppled over, and I scraped my legs on the asphalt.
***
I never learned how to ride a bike. The crew lost interest in biking by middle school, and because everyone else lost interest in the activity, I stopped worrying about it, too. Over the next seven years, I watched their interests shift from video games to sports, to girls, to investment banking. In many ways, we drifted apart. Cliff liked partying – harnessing his innate desire to play by fondling breasts and stealing alcohol. His parents still talk to mine like we’re best friends. Jacob became obsessed with Wall Street – frequently shadowing his dad at J.P Morgan and networking by age 16. Owen became an athlete, committing to play lacrosse at Bates College by the beginning of our junior year. Max moved to London at 12 – I haven’t heard from him since. I think his parents are divorced. As for me, I took an interest in writing and went off to Bard College not far from home.
***
It was the May after my junior year. I had just come home from finals week, and my dad asked me to help clean the garage so he could turn it into a home gym.
“Come look at this blast from the past!”
“What is it?” I asked.
“The Big Green Machine! Remember this thing, god, you loved it!”
We pulled it out of storage and placed it in the driveway. It had seen better days – the paint had faded, the rubber on the handles had ripped, and the whole thing smelled of dust and animal urine.
“Doesn’t feel so long ago,” I said.
It was sad and dilapidated, like an old cruise ship waiting to be scrapped at a graveyard in Bangladesh. But also, it was dignified, the same way those idling luxury liners can bring back all the transient memories from a forgotten family vacation or a 20-year-old honeymoon.
“Let’s hose it down,” my dad said, turning on the faucet.
***
Before nightfall, I took the machine out to Kilimanjaro. I listened as the gentle breeze shook the middle school’s flagpole, clanking the flag’s metal bits against the shaft’s aluminum body. I took the machine out of the car and placed it before the mountain.
I took a deep breath.
I rode that sucker up the hill, pushing my legs against the pedals with the force Michael Phelps kicks through the pool.
“Aha! Fuck yes!” I shouted from the hilltop. At that moment, my achievement mattered to nobody but me – I got no award or recognition – no cheers or snarky comments – just the sound of the breeze as it glided over the hilltop and swirled through the contours of the Big Green Machine.
Writer | Toby Rosewater ’28 | trosewater28@amherst.edu
Editor | Varsha Palaniyandy ’28 | vpalaniyandy28@amherst.edu