Chalk and Cheese Chronicles

À bicyclette!

Cue the Yves Montand, my boys are riding bikes!

Last summer, my then 4.75-year-old boys had been riding their heavy 18 (or 19"?) bicycles with training wheels since this past spring. We'd long since abandoned the tiny 12 (or 13"?) bicycles with training wheels since graduating to the bigger bikes. But the mom from whom we'd purchased both sets of bikes (at different times) told me to go back to the smaller bikes when it came time to learning to ride without training wheels. "Remove the training wheels and the pedals then take them to a small, grassy hill and they'll learn to balance," she said.

I'd known for some time that my boys were ready to ride those 12' bikes. The only problem was that those tiny bikes lived at grandpa's home for short rides down his street and in his back yard. Grandpa didn't believe the boys were ready, always erring on the "older is better" side - for everything. I begged him to take off the training wheels. "Then we'll give it a try the next time we're over, " I explained. But every week when we visited, the training wheels remained on. Finally, I just removed the training wheels myself (but kept the pedals on), brought my boys to a local school and within minutes, my boys were pedaling and pedaling fast. This was three months ago. Most of our same-age friends also hit this milestone around the same time.

Three year's ago, while vacationing in Bend, Oregon, the Target there had wooden balance bikes (similar to the popular Skuut) on clearance for TWELVE DOLLARS. I don't know if it was some kind of reverse psychology, but I didn't go for it. My mom told me, "You have so much stuff for the boys already," and it was true, I'd been trying to downsize the number of toys. I walked away without the balance bikes. They usually run around about $100 so I really should have snapped up those bikes at Target. What was I thinking? They could have been up on their bikes years ago! But then again, why would I want that?

A Dazed Mind and Happy Feet

We're at Saravana Bhavan, nourishing a friendship back to health over a dinner of dosas and steamy cups of Indian chai. But our words fall flat, unable to remain aloft. To our left, the kitchen sizzles with the sounds of frying; to our right, a flat screen television blasts a Bollywood beat and above us, the piped in sounds of traditional Indian music together compete quite effectively, drowning out our conversation. We give up, our voices strained.

My friend suggests we do something relaxing and borrows my phone. She calls ahead. They are open late, she is sure. "Ok, ok, " I hear her say, "we'll be there at 10."

"What time do they close?" I ask. "Eleven p.m., " she says. "Let's give it a try," I reply.

We jump in the car and drive, passing by older style motels with neon signs. This is the seedier stretch of El Camino in Palo Alto. Then we see it - we think. There are two signs for very different businesses, but with similar names. It's confusing. Shadows move from behind the curtains - it's that one. We are not alone at this late hour. We duck into the non-descript, darkened building, chased by the night air.

Three people greet us. "We were at the apartment, " they say, "but we came back."

Sorry, says my friend, but I'm cringing of embarrassment. I'm not keen on being the last ones in. We're inconveniencing them. What time did they really close?

The dimly lit room seems enormous, with spaces for 15 people. We lie down on side by side oversized loungers. I feel nervous. Nobody talks. (Clothes are on, only my head band was removed.)

Slosh, slosh.

Water, hotter than I'm used to arrives in a plastic tub. I slip my feet into it, trying to relax but my mind is at odds with my feet. My mind says relax, stay. My feet say run away quickly. Too hot!

I bristle but my germ free feet stay put.