Story of a Cycle...

_{My property}

An autobiography of a cycle:

Where should I start from! If I may start from day one of my existence. Yes it's all vivid: In a bustling factory, I came to life after going through a tedious process of assembling. I can recall every detail of my birth - from the moment I was completed and packed for sale on the market.

We were a group of eight cycles, each awaiting our turn to be sold. I could not wait to be the first one! The impatient me!

Finally, the day came, and we were displayed in a showroom. To my utter disappointment, all my friends were sold on day one of the display. And as for me, I had to wait for thirty long, painful days to have that sense of belonging. I kept wondering if it was my colour or the stupid shiny packaging! Why would the manufacturer experiment with me only? Did I tell you that all other bicycles were black and wrapped in a transparent plastic bubble sheet? While I was painted in neon yellow and packed in some stupid silver foil in some places.

On 31st day, just a little before the closing time, a teenage boy in a beautiful blue t-shirt paired with faded blue denim jeans entered the showroom with his mother. It was a love at first sight! The teenage boy had begged and begged her mother to make her buy me. She didn't have enough money, I think or maybe she found my yellow paint repulsive like others. But at last, she surrendered to the boy's pleas and maybe my silent prayers. So yes, my first owner, my first love was a teenage boy with a big big smile.

From there, my exciting journey of life on the road started. We went on adventures all over town. We raced down the streets, dodged puddles, and explored every corner we could find. Dearest reader, each and every ride used to be filled with laughter and the joy and anticipation of discovery! He took care of me like a princess...

And then it happened. As the initial rush of adrenaline subsided, I started feel ungrateful for the long journeys and heavy loads I had to carry. At times I thought to myself if it was even true love or just the infatuation. Or worse, the deep desire of belonging that made me so impatient to be sold! The road seemed endless, and my wheels grew tired from the constant motion. I wished for a break, a chance to rest and catch my breath. In my defense, I was getting old. Or maybe I was feeling a little worn out.

On one dreaded day, the boy got sick of my silent resistance. Yes, at times I would deliberately make it hard for him to drive. He would kick me in frustration and oil my chain. But I would dare not move.

He finally got rid of me, and I was so happy for the change. But as time went on, I found myself changing owners. Some treated me like a treasure, keeping me clean and well-oiled. Others seemed to forget about me, leaving me to rust in a corner until they remembered I existed. With each new owner, I experienced different kinds of rides – some thrilling, some even more exhausting.

And once, I was left in a garage for some five to six months. As I sat there, something changed, and I found a new kind of peace. No more rushing from place to place, no more worrying about what might happen next. I dare to say that I was enjoying this phase of my life.

After months of sitting idle in the garage and collecting layers of dust, a change finally came. One day, my owner decided to give me away in a yard sale. I was anticipating a new owner, a fresh start. And now, after much-needed rest, I was kind of ready for the next phase of my life—a life back on the road. The very thought made me giddy with joy.

But what! Instead of sending me back out on the road, they had a different plan in mind. They transformed me into something unexpected—a piece of decoration. With a few adjustments here and there, I became a console, standing proudly in the living room, adorned with vases of flowers and some blue pottery. I thought to myself, well, that's an upgrade. I should be happy. I should feel lucky. A life of peace and a life of luxury! No more kicking and foul language of those spoiled brats. I hit a jackpot with this new transformation. And just for your information, I got rid of that stark yellow paint finally. Phew.

As time passed and I settled into my new life, I started enjoying the praise of the guests who came to visit my mistress. Oh, did I tell you that my new owner was a lady in her 30s? Apologies for the late introduction, but I think my memory is becoming a little hazy. Anyways, in my heart (do I have one?), the longing for my old adventures started to take place. The new life of luxury was becoming dull, the same old scenery every single day. Nothing could cheer me up, the admiration of guests, the cozy atmosphere of the living room - nothing seemed fun anymore. Why? It wasn't the same as the thrill of the open road.

I really missed the adrenaline rush of skipping the puddles, jumping over the speed breakers, rolling down the roads, and feeling the whooshing wind on my handles and bars. The itch to roll my wheels just one more time started to weigh on me. Let me share a fun fact here; when the rider pushes on the pedals, the back wheel turns and not the front one. This action moves us forward. I bet you didn't know!

Alas! There will be no pushing of a pedal and no turning of the wheels for the rest of my life. And this question has just hit me with the penning down of this autobiography: Am I even a cycle anymore?

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@soulfuldreamer says: Now, you can decide, "Was it truly the story of a cycle...?"

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_{I have written the post for @suboohi's Contest :1 Picture 1 Story week # 30. The tags used in the post are as per requirement of the contest}