I sat in the middle of a living room floor obscured by bicycle parts.
The clerk in the sporting goods department said the store could assemble the bike for me, for a fee.
Paying someone to put together Steven’s first bike didn’t seem right.
We put him to bed at 8 o’clock the night before his birthday, and two hours later, I was sitting in the middle of bicycle chaos. The instruction sheet unfolded into something the size of a Minnesota road map.
“Easy To Assemble,” it said. Right.
That night, at least, what I lacked in ability I made up for in determination, and at 11 o’clock, I stood back to admire my handiwork.
It was a work of art.
Chrome fenders gleamed like mirrors and threw back reflections of the living room lights. Pristine black tires had the pleasant smell of new rubber. The handlebars came to my knees, and the red grips matched the color of the seat, which matched the color of the frame.
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