Oooh, remember that? I can just sit and look at that photo all day. I can feel the kickstand cracking through hard, dry dirt on a mid-summer day or digging into hot, melting tar. I can hear baseball cards held on with wooden clothespins smacking the spokes, and see the way we rode these things in long, loopy waves, back and forth across the street, nowhere special to go, nothing pressing to do. And, if I close my eyes and listen really carefully, I think I hear the ice cream truck.