Days were getting shorter, a reminder that fall had begun to move and soon there would be less leaves. Autumn in California is never very impressive, and growing up I failed to relate to the popularized images of a blazing orange leaf abscission. I was about eight or nine, wheeling my olive green bike around the main road of the neighborhood (it was essentially a backstreet that formed a loop with houses on its outer edge and interior) and taking in the change in weather. The flora of the condominium complex my family lived in at the time was still mostly green, but it boded well with everything I had ever known.

Whenever I go back to the first ten years of my life that I spent living there, my memories always appear green, as if I’m looking through a shard of emerald tinted glass. It was a tight-knit community where everybody’s kids knew each other and gathered in the shade of trees to play with pokemon cards or toy guns. Compact rectangular backyards overflowed with potted plants, flower bushes and fruit trees, teeming with a viridescent youthfulness given the amount of first generation immigrant families choosing to take root there. The Homeowners Association was very involved in the beautification of our shared home, so I grew up thinking I lived in a dense jungle, a lush ecosystem of growth. The sun rose heroically every day to greet all of its creations, but what always woke me was the light reflecting off my eggshell walls, casting brilliant light mosaics through my pear colored curtains. Outside my window there lived an everblue sky, a giant Maple tree, terracotta roofed housing units, and a troupe of bright green parakeets who unleashed a torrent of cacophonous screeches every afternoon as if cued by a conductor with an acute awareness of time. The bane of a relaxing evening, many of my neighbors detested the birds but I quite liked them. There was a coziness to their dedication, a sense of comfort and stability, so I placed my trust in their song the same way I trusted the sun to wake me up for school. It was here that I learned to read, walk, share, ask questions in class and always treat other kids the way I wanted to be treated.

I had been rolling my bike around on its wheels—I did that sometimes when I got tired of pedaling. There was only a single road to be traversed aside from some clusters of Jasmine and Holly bushes planted in cemented off sections that we referred to as “islands”, due to the way they briefly split the road and separated it into two lanes. The early afternoon sun bore down on me as I walked, but the brisk autumn breeze kept my sweat glands at bay. It brushed its airy body along my arms and upwards all around me, lifting up the fallen leaves for one last dance. My nostrils filled with familiar smells. Cut grass. Tree bark. Home cooked food. A little bit of car exhaust too. Did my world always look like this? I was trailblazing a new frontier with my steed by my side.

“You wanna race?”

A girl from the corner of my eye was unlatching the miniature gate of her own house, brandishing a shiny metallic scooter. I didn’t know her personally, but I had seen her before at community pool parties with her mom and her two brothers. She was about two years older than me, more than half a foot taller with a skinny, lanky frame that seemed to tease my own pudginess. Her skin was the color of mocha and she spoke in a way that was neither airheaded nor serious, in fact I thought her cool demeanor was a clear sign of our difference in years.

“Uhhhhhh s-sure!” I responded, a little taken by surprise, and a little awestruck too. “That sounds fun.” She sauntered over to the middle of the road where I was standing and I inspected her vehicle of choice for the first time. My own bike had a black body, with rope-like olive green designs coiled around its frame. It looked like what a toddler would have created if you handed them a can of green silly string. My dad bought it from the children’s section of Toys R Us. The girl’s ride was different. It was one of those scooters marketed towards teenagers. Boasting a minimalist design and metallic finish, it was a product you could bring into adulthood.

“How about this: we start right here,” she pointed to the edge of the curb where I stood. “Aaaand the finish line is at that island. There.” I looked straight ahead to see the goal she had designated. It was no more than fifty yards away, but you could have convinced me that it was a drivable distance. I nodded.

“Ready?” she asked. “1... 2... 3...” we blasted forward simultaneously, with me pedaling furiously and her scooting off one leg. I immediately realized the difference in our vehicles: a single push-off from her covered as much ground as five full revolutions of my two wheels, and she glided effortlessly into the lead. But I wanted to win. I pushed myself harder with determination, pedaling so vigorously my knees were at my cheekbones. The street transformed into a forest green blur as I entered the zone, trying to close the gap. The bike was getting jerkier and my control was in jeopardy, but I had to make it to the finish. I needed to be faster. Faster. Faster. Fast—

CRASH

thud thud thud thud...

The girl peered her head over the Holly thicket I had veered off and hurtled into, only a couple paces from the island.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

“Yes!” Yes. I laughed and tried to sit. Spiny leaves poked at my legs and my vision was fuzzy, but I truly was in no hurry to get up.