Saying goodbye to the bikes we loved

No matter our age, we hate to part with vehicles we enjoyed.

 My seven-year-old granddaughter caught us in the act of putting her toddler bicycle in the car trunk, for a trip to a toy donation center. 

"Not that!" the girl exclaimed. "It has memories in it." 

The fact that the tall seven-year-old girl couldn't fit on a toddler bicycle anymore momentarily meant nothing to her. 

She remembered loving that little push-along bike, and didn't want to part with it. 

Of course I instantly related to her distress. She wanted to cling to that two-wheeler the way I cling to my 1999 Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle. 

I've treasured other vehicles, too, in my life; and had to let them go.

I'm elderly now, but I still mourn the pedal car I learned (at five years of age) to "drive."

I remember my first real bicycle, a heavy Schwinn, that taught me how to lubricate bearings.

I mourn the three 10-speed bicycles that carried me all over town -- and all of which were eventually stolen! (One of them twice.)

Add to these the list of automobiles I have owned. The first was a 1958 MGA 1500 with 114,000 known miles. I couldn't afford to keep that MGA running.

Later cars that I could afford soon defeated me by rusting past respectability. (My generation of auto owners will always bear the scar of seeing our cars melt away after two winters of salted roadways.)

In a fated (stupid) effort to succeed where failure was inevitable, I owned two 1967 Pontiac Tempests and two Chevrolet Vegas. The replacement cars rusted just as fast as the originals, of course.

I loved the style of my 1980 Pontiac Grand Prix, but my children complained that rust holes in the roof meant that when it rained, it rained on them in the back seat.

Wary now of fickle machines, I've only ever owned one other motorcycle besides my Royal Enfield. 

That Honda's plastic fenders never rusted, but its exhaust pipes quickly did. (When I see used Nighthawk 250s advertised I examine the photos closely looking for the rusty pipes that defeated me.)

My granddaughter will learn that material goods ultimately fail us. We outgrow them; they wear out or deteriorate even as we struggle to restore them.

Pleasant memories of things do no harm. I especially enjoy the ones that remind us of pleasant times.

Such as all those times I chased my then-toddler granddaughter down a hill as she coasted on her push bike.

Because, ultimately, it is the people whose memory we really treasure.