When I was five, I wanted a bicycle. Not any bicycle. A two-wheel bicycle with pneumatic tyres. Preferably pink in colour.  I used to watch this girl, who was a little older than me, ride along the road, in front of my house in Alor Setar. I wanted a bike just like hers.

My dad bought me a bike some months later. A tricycle. No pneumatic tyres. And, it arrived on a trishaw. We didn’t have a car, and there were no logistic companies that provided deliveries at the time. I remember it so clearly. I was happy to have a bike but it wasn’t what I wanted. The tricycle didn’t cut it.  In my head the pneumatic tyres on a two-wheel bicycle, not tricycle, equalled being adult and important. Why? I am not entirely sure. Maybe because, in the old days, most people rode bicycles to work, including my dad. I remember him using a pump to inflate his bicycle tyres. 

My family and my husband have heard me recite my hard done-by bike story many times. I reminisce, any chance I get, and to anyone who is willing to listen, about my elusive bike. Seriously, I still stop and look when I walk past bicycle shops. There aren’t many standalone bicycle shops in Kuala Lumpur, I found. In fact, children’s bicycles are generally sold in shopping malls.  Till today, pink two-wheelers with pneumatic tyres give me flashbacks of my home and the girl with the bike. And, Jalan Seberang Perak in Alor Setar. That narrow stretch of road, dotted with mostly traditional Malay ‘attap’ houses, a few shops, a school and a timber yard, where she rode her bike. The down memory lane image tugs at my heart, a few butterflies dance in my tummy but it’s never sad. It’s nostalgia in a nice way.

Now that I can actually buy my dream bicycle, maybe even two, it’s too late. I am too big and too old. Irony. My husband agreed with the irony. As a child, he played with Action Man, a popular action figure in the 1960’s. He wanted the accessories that ranged from clothes, boots, helmets, army tanks to guns that accompanied the toy figure. The paraphernalia that Action Man wore and used in his adventures were quite expensive at the time. Now that he can buy Action Man, the whole kit plus whatever else, he is not interested any more.

Same with my mum. A self-taught seamstress. My mum literally hand stitched my sisters’ school uniforms, sewed casual clothes for us and mended all our torn garments. As a young mother, she wanted to own her own sewing machine, and attend sewing classes so she could further improve her skills. Back then, with seven school going children and one income, her wants, decidedly took a back seat. Fortunately, my dad bought her a Singer manual foot pedal sewing machine some years later. I remember my mum pedalling away at her sewing machine every Deepavali so she could produce new curtains and cushion covers for the festival. A tall order but she was up to the task.

I have offered many times to pay and take my mum to sewing classes that she missed out years ago. She has steadfastly declined. She has lost interest in sewing, and is certain her failing eye sight and hearing would not make her a good student. My mum is from the old school. Money spent must generate a tangible return. She is not interested in sewing as a hobby, not at this age, not now. I, on the other hand, thought it would be nice for her to enjoy the experience of learning new sewing techniques even if she didn’t use them. Vetoed.

Working and saving have enabled me to acquire most things that I have wanted along my life’s journey. Useful, useless, precious, meaningful and on-a-whim purchases. Today, my to-buy list is short. Ironically, I need less and want much less. However, the two-wheeler with pneumatic tyres will always be the one that got away. Hmm…