Grey-haired Grandma's almost sixty,
And she's fat and wide!
But Grandma bought a bicycle,
And you should see her ride!
Dishes might be in the sink,
and the furniture undusted -
But there she goes on her bicycle,
This Grandma that we trusted!
Can't find her home to babysit,
Or borrow a cup of flour;
For there she goes, out riding again,
Hour after hour after hour!
Sailing along on a bright spring day
or a balmy summer eve,
When the weather's nice, one thing you know
Grandma's sure to leave.
Of course we failed to mention,
"two-wheelers" she can not ride:
So we should call hers a tricycle,
With two back wheels, side by side.
At first she huffed and puffed along,
And couldn't go very far;
But now she speeds along as though
She's hitched her cycle to a star.
People look, and people laugh,
But Grandma doesn't care!
In fact she thinks they envy her,
Because they simply do not dare!
So if some day, far down the road
You see a cloud of dust,
Don't worry, it's just Grandma,
Coming home because she must!
(Now, for the rest of the story. Since I've been in North Dakota, I've been on a rummage sale bicycle buying frenzy. The first one was only five dollars, but I couldn't talk "Grandpa" into fixing the flats - so it was repurposed with red paint and geraniums. It's flat-tired partner got donated somewhere. The next bargain was a matching pair that had been left to winter outside and had, I suspect, rusty gears. But I rode mine anyway. I rode all over town. I rode to the Post Office, and to the Grocery Store, and to the Park, and to church, and, and, and. It had a basket and I have hauled everything from paint to pickles in it. Then the next one was a beauty contest winner - a vintage replica cruiser with a pearl paint job and a wicker basket. But when I started riding it, Papa decided I was going kill my wobbly self, so he found the three wheeler and bought it for me. Now our garage is full...I mean FULL of cycles! Last week, he came home from a Norwegian Grandma's estate sale down the street with an armload of treasures and a poem. Grandma's bicycle was there, but not yet for sale. He hadn't read all of the poem until he got home and oh, mercy me. You could have probably heard our howls and belly laughs all the way to Texas! So please, please read this little Norsky poem, author unknown, printed in my neck of the North Dakota prairie in another century.)
"Whenever I see an adult on a bicycle,
I have hope for the human race."