On a cold day in April, I took a bike ride along the banks of the Grand Canyon.
It was the first time I’d ridden a bike since I was eight years old, and I had a lot riding to do.
I’d always wanted to ride a motorcycle, but never really had the skills or the drive to get started.
I had the bike for the past four years, but my love for the bike was fading.
I felt like I was getting more and more bored, and the bike had become a vehicle for my unhappiness.
I wasn’t ready to leave my parents’ house, where I’d lived for a year, for the city of Phoenix, where my father is a police officer and my mother is a secretary.
I was ready to move to Los Angeles, but that would require an investment in a house, a car, and some time off work to focus on the bike.
I’m sure I’d have been a happy, responsible adult.
But the bike I had to take for the ride had the potential to be the thing that would change my life.
I bought a $700 bike, which I put together in the spare bedroom of a friend’s house.
The next day, I went out on the road with the new bike, riding the bike along a dirt road, passing other bikes, and occasionally getting yelled at by drivers.
The bike had a reputation for being rough, but I rode it for four hours, without a single accident, and then I felt more relaxed.
I began riding again and my bike had an even better reputation than it had the previous year.
As I rode down the street, I could hear a car behind me approaching.
I stopped and got out of the bike to let the driver in.
I took the bike off the road, climbed out, and looked at the driver.
He looked confused.
“Who’s this guy?” he asked.
“I don’t know, he’s riding a bike,” I replied.
He asked, “Why?”
I explained that I was on my first ride with a new bike.
He said, “We’re not going to be able to find you until after 10 o’clock tonight.”
“We can’t,” I said, shaking my head.
“Why don’t we do a little research and find out?”
He said we should go to the police department and see if we can find any witnesses.
I got off the bike and went into my friend’s room to get the bike locked.
I looked out the window and saw a man driving a motorcycle through the neighborhood.
He stopped in the middle of the street.
“He’s a cop,” I told him.
“Is he on probation?” he said.
I told the cop what I was doing and he asked if I was OK.
“No, he hasn’t been on probation yet,” I answered.
“So, he can’t have a bike on the street,” he said, still confused.
I continued to explain the bike, but he continued to look confused.
He told me that the bike would be stolen and the police would be called.
I asked if there was any way to call the police and get him to stop.
He started to explain what he had to do to get a bicycle back.
He would have to stop his bike and put it in a storage room with other stolen bikes and other bikes on the streets.
He then got out the bicycle and started to walk back to the car.
He had a few things to do, but by the time he got to the storage room, he was already in the process of taking the bike away.
When I saw that he was trying to put the bike back in the car, I yelled at him, “Stop!
“It’s stolen!” he said with frustration.
“It wasn’t stolen!”
I yelled back, “It was stolen!
He was trying!
He’s trying to take it!”
He didn’t stop.
I then told him to take the bike out of his storage room and into my room and told him not to do it again.
I don’t remember what happened next, but the bike never came back.
I didn’t go to jail, because I didn “know” that he could have stolen it.
It’s possible that the police caught up to him and took the bicycle away, but it’s more likely that he stopped doing it, and just rode around on the bicycle until he got tired.
I decided to give the bike a little bit of love and put a note on it saying, “I’d love to have this bike for a few years to see if it is good enough.”
I got the bike fixed and gave it to my brother.
After a few months, I started riding again.
For the next two years, I kept riding, riding, and riding, until I was able to do a full cycle.
I used the bike when I was driving to work, to go shopping, and to school.
I rode to the