There is something magical about the memories of childhood, especially those that revolve around simple objects, a cycle, for instance. For a little boy his first cycle became the centerpiece of his early dreams, a vehicle of freedom and adventure that carried him through the winding roads of his youth.
At first, he watched from the sidelines, wide eyed as other children pedaled past on their shiny cycles, feeling the wind in their hair and the world at their feet. He longed to join them, to experience that same joy. After what felt like endless pleading and begging, his dream finally came true. His first cycle, a violet Atlas designed for girls was handed to him. But to him, it wasn’t just a “ladies cycle", It was everything. He did not care about the design or what others thought. All he saw was freedom.
His first ride was clumsy, wobbling down the street but soon enough, he was flying. That cycle opened up an entirely new world of adventure. With every pedal stroke, he explored new streets, raced with friends and scraped his knees in the process. As time went on, he personalized it, painting it black and plastering it with funky stickers. It was not just a cycle anymore, it became an extension of his adventurous spirit.
There were also days when he went with his dad to repair the damages he had caused while riding. Tiny legs struggled to keep pace with Dad as they walked alongside the cycle. It was a long walk and while he was not thrilled about it, the thought of riding the cycle back home kept him excited.
As he grew, so did his need for something bigger, something that could keep up with the boy he was becoming. That is when the red Hercules entered his life. Owning a Hercules in those days was the equivalent of owning a Royal Enfield today. With its big tires and floating carrier, it was every kid’s dream ride. He rode it with pride, racing through the streets, drifting and pulling off stunts. He wore out the tires, wrecked the brakes and took countless tumbles. But none of that mattered because every scratch, every bruise came with a story.
Like the time he tried to show off when people passed by, imitating the cool kids. He pedaled hard and decided to take it up a notch by pulling the front wheel off the ground, attempting a wheelie. But before he could savor the moment, he lost balance and crashed miserably to the ground. With scrapes all over his body, he limped home, only to be greeted by his mom’s scolding rather than sympathy. Typical Indian mom behavior, she fussed more about the fall than his wounds.
Then there were the days when “Kangal Irandal” from Subramaniapuram played endlessly on TV. Actor Jai, letting his hands loose while cycling in the song, became a moment everyone tried to imitate. The boy was no exception. With the vibe of Kangal Irandal in his head, he tried to recreate the scene, hands free cycling with confidence, only to be mocked by his friends when he wobbled and nearly fell. Yet, that did not stop him from trying again.
These cycles were more than just rides, they were companions in mischief, partners in adventure. Each fall, each race, and every scrape brought with it a story, a memory that shaped his childhood.
The boy grew up and the Hercules eventually left his life. But even now that old Atlas cycle remains- bit dusty, a little worn but forever a part of his story. It carried not just a child but his dreams, his adventures and his first taste of freedom. Those days may be long gone, but the little boy is still very much alive. As he rides into the future on bigger, faster machines, a part of that little boy still lingers, pedaling down those streets with the wind in his hair, dreaming of the world ahead.
Do you remember the first time you pedaled away, feeling like you could conquer anything, the stunts you tried, the scrapes you collected and the stories your old cycles still carry?
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