My bike swoops up and over the rolling hills of Williamsville. My head bobs up and down the cracks in the sidewalks and the potholes on the road. I purse my lips apologetically whenever a car must pass around me. Still, I grip the handlebars harder and lower my head like a stallion readying for a race. My helmet shifts forward, objective in mind. I pedal faster.
This was my midnight ride.
At the peak of the American Revolution, or the war to freedom as known by modern day residents of the United States, a gallant man strode on his horse in the dead of night. It was a still April night in 1775 when Paul Revere shouted upon his galloping horse, “The British are coming!” at the top of his lungs. He shouted like his life depended on it, and for many, it did. His cries of alarm awoke the farmers and militia resting at home and gave them the precious minutes needed to prepare for battle. His cries of alarm ensured the colonial wins in subsequent battles needed for the overall outcome of the war. His message spread across the town’s apparatus loud and clear. His voice was heard.
The sun turned his head and sunk below the ground faster than I could bike. Night greeted me. I ran into the store and grabbed what I needed, breath coming out of my mouth in pants. Quickly, I paid and took the bag, strapping it to the handlebar of my bike. My fingers fumbled for my phone and directions to get home. My legs ached. My stead whined of lack of air, tires deflating. The lampposts of the busy road began to light up, one by one.
I swung my body back and forth to gain more speed. It was the greatest test of endurance my body ever had to withstand. I glanced side to side to make sure no unknowing cars would speed past, hoping the neon orange shirt I wore from my summer camp would help, as well as the unattractive blue track shorts. My hair was matted from sweat, but the goosebumps on my arms said otherwise. My calves strained, yet I shivered. I missed calls from my father and sister. It was late. It was dark. They worried about my whereabouts.
Finally, I arrived home, pulling my bike to a squeaking halt in the garage. I ran inside, my face covered in grime and my hands calloused. With triumph, I brought out the bag I had procured from the midnight ride and placed a cup of its contents into a boiling pot of water.
It was the first time I made bubble tea. I knew my parents had a long day and that they loved the familiar taste of their home country. I pedaled on my bike like Revere on his horse. The roads of Sheridan became the dirt paths of the village. My voice rang out through the plastic bag clutched in my hand. I galloped, my hands gripped the reins, just to show my family the one thing that mattered the most; my love for them.
October 2020