Riding bikes before sunset

Lately, I've been asking myself the same questions that never seem to have a true answer: Have I done right in my life? Am I doing my best? Do I regret anything?  Sure enough, I've been repeating the same albums lately, when listening to music.  As I contemplate on the trials life continues to throw at me, all I can remember is how much more simple everything seemed in my youth.

The earlier the time was, the easier it seemed.  I think beauty can always be found in simplicity.  It reminds us of the better things in life that remain uncomplicated.  They are like the dreams that have yet been untouched by the truth of humanity and its consequent intricacies of greed, hate, jealousy and moral perversion.  It is as if my eagerness to trace back the mess I've made in my life could somehow be sorted out like a tangled ball of string.  So I get lost in the mayhem: here is when I made my first mistake, following which, I lost way of goals, building up to the collection of failures for the years following....

I can't pinpoint exactly why certain songs can call back memories of my childhood. Usually, it's the easy pace of a simple guitar with a sad melody that will bring them back.

When I hear the piano, I hear music of my own; the familiar keys strike back a hard certainty of how things are and how difficult they have become.  But when I hear the guitar, I remember my father's old acoustic guitar; despite its veneer worn with age, it could sing classic stories with such warmth in its didactic timbre.  I remember my brother's rebellious electric guitar and the self-taught lessons-- first learned in secrecy and yet later fueled by the history laid before it.  So, the guitar had set the tone for memories I recall as guidance I had admired lovingly in my younger years.  Even when I hear a new song, the reverberating steel strings can still resonate with the tracks that had shaped me.

I didn't grow up in California, but a good bike ride always makes me feel happy again--a simple kind of happiness.  It is the same feeling I had as a child riding through by myself in the cul-de-sac of our suburbs in Northern Virginia.  When we were younger, my brother and I always rode together, but there was a distinct time I remember in-between our youth and older age, when I was still too young to give up my white Huffy road bike.  In the late summer, I would have enough time to ride afternoons aimlessly around the neighborhood, as long as I made it back in time for dinner.  Every sunset ride home, I could smell the barbeque of my neighbors' grill and the soft cool air from the incoming fall would lift the hair in my loose fitted helmet.  Moments like these don't have much of an explanation behind them, only the feeling that comes with it.  These are the good, uncomplicated memories that remind us of a more simple time.

Bobby and I like to ride our bikes to the beach, though we haven't had the time to go recently.  Finally, a weekend wasn't booked, and we both had the idea to go.  It was one of those fantastic moments when we came together with something we both wanted and were met with the satisfaction in knowing it was the same thing.  So, Bobby came to my door on a Saturday afternoon with his bicycle.  We pumped our bikes' tires and set off to go.

The way to the beach from my apartment isn't difficult.  It takes about three or four blocks before hitting the major road that leads to the beach in about 5 to 10 minutes' ride.  The last few minutes before hitting the peninsula is a beautiful downhill slope that overlooks Newport Beach.  Bobby always rides down first, leading the path with such carefree expression.  It is this moment in which I am always taken back.  I see the sun shining proudly over the ocean, hardly a cloud in the sky, and the line of houses behind the Pacific Coast Highway calls for us to follow beyond the horizon for an afternoon visit.

Riding home from Newport Beach with Bobby, I heard simple sounds; the shifting gears of his bike, the rattle of my own over bumps on the sidewalk.  Though the sun sets in a different direction on the West Coast, it felt like the same cool blanket of warm violet over darkened blues.  Once again, I felt happy.  I was coming home with my best friend, and these are our adventures.  Our memories to be shared together; the laughter affirmed by company and the sadness understood by a confidant.  The bike ride was the perfect time to reflect, but for once since a long time, I didn't feel sad to think back on my mistakes.  Perhaps I still don't know what the right answer is, but it sure sounds like the slow and easy slide of a steel guitar in my mind and Bobby's warm call aloud for me to ride beside him.  All I know for certain is that I am on the right way home.