The Bike In The Tree

There have been occasions when I will put aside the poison pen and take a brief respite. This is another one of those easier-on-the-mind occasions. So in an attempt to bring you some lighthearted laughs, sit back and relax, and join me on a trip down memory lane.

There’s a bridge that spans a major highway, river, and a railroad, and connects two counties. One day it was on this expanse that accommodates both pedestrian and vehicular traffic that I discovered what turned out to be one of life's rather unusual and fascinating mysteries.

It began decades ago. I first noticed it on my way home from school. While crossing the bridge, I saw an object nestled in a large maple tree. The tree rose up about thirty feet from the wooded area below, with branches just out of reach beyond a high-security fence on the bridge. There nestled in the branches was a small child’s bicycle. It must have been there a long time, for it was all rusted over and had the appearance of an antique.

I stood and stared at the mini-conveyance for a while and wondered how it got there, and for what reason anyone would discard a bike and decide its final resting place would be in a tree. In my teenage thinking, I had already determined it could not have grown there. Then I thought, perhaps long ago when it was just a small sapling with its crest barely above ground, some insensitive kid outgrew the bike and left it there resting on top of the still-growing tree.

Or maybe it was being transported cross-country in an airplane when the cargo door accidentally opened, and it fell out and landed in the tree; or somebody just flung it from the bridge. Yes, these were just some of the gifted musings that a young imaginative mind could dream up. From then on whenever I crossed the bridge, even if I was on the opposite side, I would run for my life with a knapsack full of books, from the speeding cars to the other side just to pay homage to the bike in the tree. Chances are most passersby had not even noticed it just a few feet beyond the security fence.

Although an inanimate object, it didn’t even know my name and couldn’t communicate, the bike in the tree held a certain fascination and became something to emulate. There it rested all alone, no loved ones or friends, save for me. No one would revel in the pleasure one might have had in its usage. In the snow, rain, hot summer sun, and when autumn leaves fell, there it was covered in white or green, or draped in a layer of multicolored foliage; it always presented itself to me a mystery perhaps never to be solved.

It was Strong and persevered through years of neglect and inclement weather, and refused to give in to the temptation to give up, just let go and fall; a testament to courage and fortitude. But then perhaps the great maple would refuse to give up its charge, and hold it fast.

One day while on my way home I noticed a group of kids I recognized from school gathered around the bike in the tree. They were talking and pointing at my friend. As I approached one of these punks was climbing the security fence with his accomplices holding him steady. I yelled out “Stop,” and ran at the group, and asked what they thought they were doing. The climber came down and said he was going to remove the bike from the tree. I said, “No you’re not; move away or there’s going to be trouble.”

What had happened was that I had mentioned to others at school of findings, and word had spread around. Now everybody knew of the bike, and no telling what would happen. I pushed the climber into his friends, we tousled, the others joined in, and we all fell to the ground. No punches were thrown, and there were no bloody noses. One of the punks got me in a headlock, while several cars stopped and broke up the altercation.

We all went our separate ways, but I was troubled and wondered what I might do. I could not be there keeping guard all day long. I was uncertain and even considered making the effort to remove the bike myself, hold it at home for a brief period of time, and then when all the interest died down and others believed it was longer there, I put it back in place.

Without going to this extreme, I decided to let things remain and just keep a close watch on the bike in the tree. Actually, it would have been dangerous for anyone to try and remove it; the bike was out of reach from the walkway. The tree's branches held it fast; it would have required climbing over the fence and stretching with very long arms to try to grasp it, or going down below and climbing up the tree.

Time passed…

The senior prom was fast approaching and I had no date yet. Finally having gotten up the nerve, I approached her, Teresa, one of the most, if not the most, beautiful girls in school. I stopped her in the hallway between classes and asked her to meet me after school, I wanted to discuss something. At first, she was somewhat aloof and seemed uninterested, and asked what this was all about. I said it was important, and that the fate of the world hung in the balance. She laughed and said okay.

We met after school on a bright sunny spring day. Even in her uniform, she was breathtaking. Her eyes were as blue as the azure sky, her hair like golden wheat further enhanced by the sun's rays. We walked together under the watchful gaze of other students who were whispering, nodding, and smiling. I asked what her plans were after graduation; she said she was going on to college to study the law. I steered our path toward the bridge, she seemed rather impatient and asked where we are going. I said nowhere in particular, just walking and breathing in the fresh air, in tune with nature.

We finally arrived at the spot, and what was most perplexing was she didn’t notice the bike in the tree, and paid it no attention. I even stood between her and the bike which was directly behind me, and in front of her, but nothing. I asked what she thought about it, and sort of arched my head back in the direction of the bike. You will not believe how she responded, “It’s just a crummy old bike.” I said but it’s in a tree. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “So what?”

Oh yeah, she rebuffed me with extreme prejudice. Teresa got real close and looked into my eyes with her big baby blues and pointed a finger like a loaded gun in my face, and then poked my chest with the same digit and said, “I waited weeks for you to ask me to the prom, and now with only days left, you ask. Well," she continued, “I was asked by several other boys and decided to choose one of them.” I asked, ”Who?"

She ignored my entreaty, and then added, “Serves you right, he who hesitates is lost.” She then turned abruptly; her flaxen hair swirled around, brushed my face, and came to rest on her shoulders. She walked down the bridge, stopped and turned, again with that hair swirling around, her arms akimbo she gave me a big smile and sashayed off.

I was crushed; the world I knew was collapsing around me. The whole school will soon know. I’d be a pariah, an outcast, a loser. Perhaps I’ll join the French Foreign Legion. But wait, I thought for a moment and asked myself why I would want to associate with a female who had no sense of life’s mysteries, no imagination, unobservant, clueless, and couldn’t see or understand the forest from the tree with a bike in it. It confirmed for me that beauty is only skin deep.

Today, it’s still there, older and more ravaged by time, like me, but still the same bike in the tree. I can only guess how much longer it will last, hopefully for as long as I cross the bridge.