Roxbury

This is my second trip to Roxbury, where I have come to pick up my bike from the good people at Bikes not Bombs. They refurbish bikes, and in the hour plus that I spent here three weeks ago picking out the pieces of my bike-to-be, I witnessed several good-intentioned, kid-toting mothers dropping off rusty and unused city bikes. It's an interesting business--the bike donors must pay $5 to donate the bike, which Bikes not Bombs resells for, at minimum, 57 times as much. Local kids stop by to borrow tools, handily making street bikes out of former suburban health goals. I am amused to overhear some local kid describing the bike he's fixing--"no, man, I didn't steal it. It was there when I went into school, and still there when I came back. It was nobody else's."

I've never owned a refurbished bike, but none of that matters: as soon as I step on the petals, I am filled with elation. Even though it's about to rain and nearly dark, I cannot resist a quick ride. I bike back from Roxbury to the Charles, along the way discovering the quirky pattern of Boston bike paths--which so eerily resemble sidewalks, that I and not a few pedestrians stumble over negotiations and confusions. Along the river, I break two spokes; the root systems have turned the path into a mountain biking experience. Dodging roller-bladers, joggers, strollers and roots: this is the last time I ride along the river.