Of Milk and Bicycles

When I was a teenager, my mother would often send me to the neighborhood grocery store for a gallon of milk. She would ask me in the afternoon after I had gotten back from school. Since this was in my pre-drivers license days, I would get on my bicycle and peddle the 10 minutes to get the gallon of milk. This wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, my preferred chore. The milk would quickly become heavy, the plastic bags were useless and would tear on the way home. I would end up holding the milk in one hand and steer with the other. Sometimes the change would fall to the ground, other times my bicycle’s chain would fall off, and often I’d find myself walking home with the milk in one hand and pushing the bike home with the other. Under the hot Florida sun, I would find myself figuring out how I could avoid another gallon-of-milk bicycle run.

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