Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

The Man, the Bicycle, and the Progress


More by this author
And there I stood. I watched the man who had been biking for hours and hours. I was confused at the point of why he was here; he wasn’t apart of the population around here. He made a left turn away from me. He stayed at a steady pace on his bicycle. His arms hung loosely on the handlebars. And then he stopped. The sound of his tires screeching against the concrete bike path caused the geese near to fly away back into their flock. No sign was brought to why he stopped; he just did. Maybe he saw me staring. I doubt he has eyes on the back of his head. I didn’t know weather to carry on with my walk or to turn around and run home. But he just sat there on his bike. I wasn’t sure of who this man was. He was skinny; extremely skinny. He had a black tee shirt on. He had light blue washed denim jeans that had mud on them. He had short, brown hair. His age was the part that threw me off. He had worry and fear written on his face, but relief had shown through with his body language. I couldn’t tell what his skin tone was. The sun was shining at odd angles.


I awoke to the light beaming through my window shade. It was finally Saturday. I felt to treat myself to some lunch, so I slipped out of bed at got ready for the day. Before leaving, I decided to go say goodbye to my parents as I always do. They weren’t downstairs like they always are. My mom awakes at six every morning, no matter the time of the week. My dad was always up early on Saturday morning to read the paper. Neither of them were downstairs. But they always were. Always. I went to their bedroom. Their door was closed. It’s never closed. I knocked shyly on their wooden bedroom door. I waited. No answer. I knocked harder this time. A minute later, there was still no answer. This time I pounded on the door. Where are they? I attempted to open their door, but it was locked. I decided to leave a note outside of their bedroom.

Mom and Dad, I’m going to go eat some lunch. Be back in a half hour.


I walked around a mile and a half until I reached the diner. I walked up to the front door and attempted to open it. But I couldn’t; it was locked. I looked inside of the door. Hung up was the note I left outside of my parent’s bedroom door. I was confused and frightened. I stepped back for a moment and slowly walked away after noticing that the diner was empty. Completely empty. I looked at the road. Nothing. No cars, no stoplights. The air was still and hot. I turned direction and ran into something. I stumbled over and stood up. I turned around to see nothing around me.
“Hello?”
“Hello.” I heard a deep voice say.
It was the man on the bike. We stood there for awhile in silence until I broke it.
“What do you what?” I asked softly.
“Only you can change this.” He said.
“What?”
“Do not wait for others to act; make a difference yourself.”
I was confused until I recognized his concept. I stood yesterday staring at him waiting to move. I waited for him to come to me. But I should have acted on things myself; I cannot wait for people to do things for me. I am me. I am in charge of the things that I do.
“We all want progress, but if you're on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; in that case, the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive.”
C.S. Lewis

We are used to everyday, but some days, it’s better to not be.



Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback