“The Bicycle Trail” “Dad, I don’t want to go to the Piba Class. Can we go next weekend? ”
I begged my father as he peddled through a small pond(small amount: is this the right word to use?) of rain water on the pedestrian path. A few drops spurred(splashed) on my ankle. It felt cool as the summer air passed through my skin in the idle commotion of the (my) father’s silver bicycle. I sat behind him on the backseat, wrapping around his wide and chubby waist with both of my arms. My Piba case kept hitting my back whenever it got a chance, especially when we were an uneven road. I never liked it and neither didit (he)!
“Oh, well(-) well, I’m sure you’re going (to) enjoy the class. Besides you have alreadypromised me that this year, you’re going learn one Chinese instrument! Stick to your word!”
Recently, my dad has been delirious about possibility for her(his) only daughter to master(ing) a (traditional) Chinese traditional instrument. He would deliberately pause at a TV channel that shows live performance of the Chinese traditional orchestra when I’m beside him and ask me “What do you think? Want to try one just for fun?”My intuition told me to never trust him when he suggested “just for fun”! Once he tricks me to attend the first class, he would continue to do so until I finish the entire course. That’s what happened with my guitar class, my Samba and my badminton lessons.Had my mom not intervened, my spare time to enjoy drawing would have been replaced by tedious practice following a strict instructor.
“But my dear beloved sweet liver, you can’t just be good at Art. According to the ancient Chinese criterion of being a Fair Lady, you have to know how to draw, play chess, appreciate literature and master an instrument! ”
“Dad, we’re living in 20th century, not in stone age! Who cares about being a fair lady! That thing doesn’t sell in now days.”
One day, after my 13th birthday, my father asked me, for the 99th times, which instrument I would like to learn. I finally gave up and picked Piba. I thought it would be easy for me to learn since it mildly resembles a guitar. However, I was wrong. I soon find myself struggled to keep up with the class requirement. And now as my father and I are heading toward the music school not far away from my junior high, I felt the reluctance within me grow bigger and stronger.
“Please, dad! I really don’t want to go! I don’t feel well. Mrs. Chen is so annoying; she thinks she’s the best! She never stops listen to what I want to say. She is as cruel as the emperor Qing. She wants us to kneel down in front of her and beg her to show us how she preformed when she was on a tour in Japan ... ...”
I kept on complaining until we entered a road that I’ve never taken before. This is the first time my father dropped me to school with a bicycle. He usually would drive me to the destination with his beautiful silver Buick. However, today he could not do so since he ordered his employees to take up an important customer from the airport. The path unfolded ahead us in gentle slopes. Sparkles of the sunrays escaped from the space in between the leaves printed on the path. I saw green trees on either side of the road waved and whispered at us. The road smelled of earth, fruits and animal wastes. For a second I thought I was in the country side.
A ball entered my vision. I looked back and saw three kids playing at the side of the road near the fences. One had a wood stick in his hand and ran after the girl with the ball in her hand. He poked her. She turned back and blocked another poke with the ball.
How I envy them. I could have been playing with my friends right now had I not taken the Piba lessons. Yet, I could still make my dad change my mind, I thought. What if I jump off the bicycle and start running back?My dad would definitely try to me. I will beg him again to let me skip of today’s lesson. At least by then I would feel much more control once my feet are on the ground. I impulsively moved my feet backward to prepare myself for the land fall. Suddenly, an overwhelming pain took over me.
“Ahhhhhhhh” I cried!
Father stopped paddling instantly and jerked off the bicycle. I wailed as blood spilled off my ankle. Some spanned through my lower heel, some covered part of the thin metal railings on the bicycle tire.
“Oi yo yo yo! What happened? Don’t move, don’t move.” After a short examination of my injury, father quickly hopped on the bicycle again. This time, he did not peddle, his two feet was racing against each other in a circular motion.
“We have to hurry to the hospital, hang on there!”
But I did not mind a word he said, I was busy crying. His back leaned forward. My arms around him gradually felt the heat and sweat. His panting became louder and louder eventually occupying both of my ears as I could no longer hear anything else but his heavy breathing. My cries softened but my heart was filled with uneasiness.
I have never seemed my father got scared before.
He either smiles, laughs or frowns. When I through in a tantrum, he would try to smooth me by facing me with his pouting lips, mocking me of being such a baby. When I really get too far, he would scold at me even spank me with his palm. But I could not remember the last time he did that. The only thing I remembered what he did was hiding backstage spying me during my dancing performance at my elementary school graduation day. I was concentrating on the moves and the corner of my eye suddenly detected a familiar image. It was my dad, squatting near the curtain on the right side of the stage, watching me. I could see he was smiling as if he has just finished a bottle of honey. I tightened my grasp my father’s wet shirt.
Dad murmured something. I didn’t hear. I buried my face deep into his shirt. I heard the tree branches above us .....(what’s the right verd to use to describe the sound made by leaves rubbing against each other.) They branched out toward each other, enclosing the sky and embedding a beautiful tunnel for me and dad. And I wished the trail would never end.
“Dad, I don’t want to go to the Piba Class. Can we go next weekend? ”
I begged my father as he peddled through a small pond (small amount: is this the right word to use?) of rain water on the pedestrian path. A few drops spurred(splashed) on my ankle. It felt cool as the summer air passed through my skin in the idle commotion of the (my) father’s silver bicycle. I sat behind him on the backseat, wrapping around his wide and chubby waist with both of my arms. My Piba case kept hitting my back whenever it got a chance, especially when we were an uneven road. I never liked it and neither did it (he)!
“Oh, well(-) well, I’m sure you’re going (to) enjoy the class. Besides you have already promised me that this year, you’re going learn one Chinese instrument! Stick to your word!”
Recently, my dad has been delirious about possibility for her(his) only daughter to master(ing) a (traditional) Chinese traditional instrument. He would deliberately pause at a TV channel that shows live performance of the Chinese traditional orchestra when I’m beside him and ask me “What do you think? Want to try one just for fun?” My intuition told me to never trust him when he suggested “just for fun”! Once he tricks me to attend the first class, he would continue to do so until I finish the entire course. That’s what happened with my guitar class, my Samba and my badminton lessons. Had my mom not intervened, my spare time to enjoy drawing would have been replaced by tedious practice following a strict instructor.
“But my dear beloved sweet liver, you can’t just be good at Art. According to the ancient Chinese criterion of being a Fair Lady, you have to know how to draw, play chess, appreciate literature and master an instrument! ”
“Dad, we’re living in 20th century, not in stone age! Who cares about being a fair lady! That thing doesn’t sell in now days.”
One day, after my 13th birthday, my father asked me, for the 99th times, which instrument I would like to learn. I finally gave up and picked Piba. I thought it would be easy for me to learn since it mildly resembles a guitar. However, I was wrong. I soon find myself struggled to keep up with the class requirement. And now as my father and I are heading toward the music school not far away from my junior high, I felt the reluctance within me grow bigger and stronger.
“Please, dad! I really don’t want to go! I don’t feel well. Mrs. Chen is so annoying; she thinks she’s the best! She never stops listen to what I want to say. She is as cruel as the emperor Qing. She wants us to kneel down in front of her and beg her to show us how she preformed when she was on a tour in Japan ... ...”
I kept on complaining until we entered a road that I’ve never taken before. This is the first time my father dropped me to school with a bicycle. He usually would drive me to the destination with his beautiful silver Buick. However, today he could not do so since he ordered his employees to take up an important customer from the airport. The path unfolded ahead us in gentle slopes. Sparkles of the sunrays escaped from the space in between the leaves printed on the path. I saw green trees on either side of the road waved and whispered at us. The road smelled of earth, fruits and animal wastes. For a second I thought I was in the country side.
A ball entered my vision. I looked back and saw three kids playing at the side of the road near the fences. One had a wood stick in his hand and ran after the girl with the ball in her hand. He poked her. She turned back and blocked another poke with the ball.
How I envy them. I could have been playing with my friends right now had I not taken the Piba lessons. Yet, I could still make my dad change my mind, I thought. What if I jump off the bicycle and start running back? My dad would definitely try to me. I will beg him again to let me skip of today’s lesson. At least by then I would feel much more control once my feet are on the ground. I impulsively moved my feet backward to prepare myself for the land fall. Suddenly, an overwhelming pain took over me.
“Ahhhhhhhh” I cried!
Father stopped paddling instantly and jerked off the bicycle. I wailed as blood spilled off my ankle. Some spanned through my lower heel, some covered part of the thin metal railings on the bicycle tire.
“Oi yo yo yo! What happened? Don’t move, don’t move.” After a short examination of my injury, father quickly hopped on the bicycle again. This time, he did not peddle, his two feet was racing against each other in a circular motion.
“We have to hurry to the hospital, hang on there!”
But I did not mind a word he said, I was busy crying. His back leaned forward. My arms around him gradually felt the heat and sweat. His panting became louder and louder eventually occupying both of my ears as I could no longer hear anything else but his heavy breathing. My cries softened but my heart was filled with uneasiness.
I have never seemed my father got scared before.
He either smiles, laughs or frowns. When I through in a tantrum, he would try to smooth me by facing me with his pouting lips, mocking me of being such a baby. When I really get too far, he would scold at me even spank me with his palm. But I could not remember the last time he did that. The only thing I remembered what he did was hiding backstage spying me during my dancing performance at my elementary school graduation day. I was concentrating on the moves and the corner of my eye suddenly detected a familiar image. It was my dad, squatting near the curtain on the right side of the stage, watching me. I could see he was smiling as if he has just finished a bottle of honey.
I tightened my grasp my father’s wet shirt.
“Dad, I’m okay. Don’t tire yourself out. I’m fine!”
Dad murmured something. I didn’t hear. I buried my face deep into his shirt. I heard the tree branches above us .....(what’s the right verd to use to describe the sound made by leaves rubbing against each other.) They branched out toward each other, enclosing the sky and embedding a beautiful tunnel for me and dad. And I wished the trail would never end.