Daddy clearly took pleasure in turning to me with, “Daughter, why don’t you go ride your bike on the damn freeway?” and I surely loved hearing him say it whenever he and I both knew I was pestering him for that very reaction. And we did have a stretch of what would be Interstate 10 right outside of the little motel mama and daddy bought just inside the California border, but at the time it was just 4 unlined lanes of blazing white pavement, about 3 miles worth, unconnected on either side. A “patch” we called it. It was the connections mama and daddy waited for, but in the meantime, when it wasn’t too blazing sunhot or windy to leave grit on your tongue, that stretch of freeway was mine, all mine, or nearly so, for all the games I played during my back and forths on that bike.
I shared it with my brother and the few kids from the trailer park behind the motel, but I owned that road just because I rode it the most, but also because I talked about it the most.
“Won’t none of us be able to ride on patch when it gets all connected,” I intoned with authority more than once. “And then with all the business coming in, we’ll build TWO swimming pools and TWO more stories for the motel,” I’d continue, echoing what I’d heard from my daddy many times. Then, just to maintain my family’s aristocracy, I’d add, “And, you know, we’re gonna have to turn the trailer park into miniature golf course for the leisure of our guests.” It always disappointed me that that younger trailer kids didn’t fully understand the implication of the miniature golf plan.
That was my plan anyway.
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