First on the street!

My brother’s bike was bigger than mine, but not by much—it wasn’t a race bike by any means. In our small community, other families could afford bikes like ours, but we were the first. That felt special, like we had something no one else had, even if we weren’t exactly pioneers in the traditional sense. Still, there was an undeniable pride in that fact—we were first.

I was in grade five, my brother in grade seven, when Dad brought the bikes home. Mine was a Suzuki DS 80—nothing fancy, but it was mine. My brother’s bike was a little more powerful, but they were both sturdy, simple, and perfect for what we needed. We were far too young to ride on the road, so we kept to the space around my dad’s shop, weaving between the cars and wood, dodging obstacles, and learning the rhythm of the throttle.

Our Dad didn’t have to tell us twice. We went out the next day and bought helmets—official gear for official riders. And just like that, we were on our bikes every chance we got, carving out little tracks around the shop, our engines humming as we pushed the limits of those humble bikes.

They weren’t the best bikes in the world, but they didn’t need to be. They were ours, and they came from Dad. That made all the difference. Those bikes didn’t just give us freedom—they gave us a bond, something shared that couldn’t be taken away. Even without the open road, we had our little world, and we ruled it.

To hear how obnoxious my bike sounded, listen below:).