Scooter Racing.

I remember that kid. Miguel was a little boy with dark-brown hair, which bunched into curls on his head, framing his brown eyes glinting with boyish mischief. He was a sporty, active kid who never seemed to run out of energy. Like most boys, his main mission in life was to make as much mischief as his abilities would allow.

(The ADD might have had something to do with it, but we all have ADD in a way, I suppose.)

We went to the same school since kindergarten. Maybe grade one. Either way, it was long enough to realize that this kid was his own person. He never walked. He galloped. He galloped across the classroom, down the hallways, and I remember once in grade three, right through a domino tower one of our classmates had just finished setting up.

He’d sing too; it was his favorite song, and he’d always be singing or humming the chorus “I’m blue, dah ba di dah ba dai…” He’d gallop down the hallways singing, and the sounds would bounce off the hallway walls, satisfying this little boy’s need for applause.

We were an unlikely duo, as I was the quiet girl sitting in the corner, who wouldn’t speak unless spoken to. But I liked him. He was a free spirit, and took his position of the center of the assistant teacher’s attention in stride. He wasn’t a shy child, and talked to anyone he wanted. He was blunt, and got on the other children’s’ nerves with his hyperactive behavior all day. I didn’t mind.

He lived on my street, on the far end. I remember his house was the nice one with the fishpond and gazebo in the backyard. Best of all, there was a tire swing hanging from the big oak tree, which we could swing on for hours. He had a Playstation in his basement, where he would play Pokemon and Zelda games.

He wanted to be like his brother. He loved his scooters and skateboards, and “Marco” was every other word on his tongue. In grade four, he’d progressed to extreme speed on his scooter, as he would zoom down our quiet street, the wheels cruising underneath him, and the wind blowing at the bits of hair sticking out from the helmet his mother made him wear.

He would let me try all his contraptions. I had a bicycle, but I would test out his scooter, skateboard, and I even tried his pogo-stick once. Not that I was any good, but he was encouraging, and let me use them, even when he was itching for his wheels.

So one day, when I came home from choir practice, my father had a surprise for me: a nice red shiny scooter waited on my front porch. I remember my excitement as I wheeled over to Miguel’s home in my summer dress, and eagerly rang the doorbell with my new toy. His eyes widened with excitement as he exclaimed, “That’s so awesome! Now we can race each other!”

I was getting the hang of the scooter, but speed was definitely not in my element. He’d beat me by a long shot, his one foot sweeping the ground furiously underneath him, while the other foot held steady on the footboard underneath. He’d always beat me by a long shot- always at least 2 meters ahead of me.

“I’ll teach you to scooter faster!” And Miguel instantly became my self-appointed scooter-coach. We scheduled my first lesson to be the next afternoon, at five o’clock. I remember being so excited, calling his house before bed just to make sure that he would remember. When his mother picked up the phone, I remember her laughing as I explained myself.

“Miguel and I have a lesson tomorrow… he’s going to teach me to scooter faster!”

The next afternoon till dark was a crash course on speed. “Don’t push so lightly with your foot… kick your foot out past the front wheel so you can make a bigger push! Then you’ll go faster!” He was a good teacher, but he was always so excited with every bit of progress I made with his coaching. I was excited too… I was getting better.

“Tomorrow will be your test.” He told me, as the sun was going down. “See ya tomorrow!” I remember waving to him in the distance. I called his house again before I went to bed. Maybe I called twice.

It was the ultimate race after school. It was just me and my teacher on one end of the street, racing to the other. The end of the track would be at the mailbox. He looked at me encouragingly, trying to hide the competitive feel he had as he gripped his handlebars.

“Ready… set… go!”

And oh, I could feel the wind rushing through my hair, and hitting my face. SO this was what it felt like to be in a competition of speed. And the pavement moved under me, giving way to my foot sweeping and pounding the ground. But Miguel was getting so much farther away…

I think he noticed, as he looked back at me. All of a sudden, I was catching up! I was getting closer to him, and the finish line was almost in my reach… I just had to pass him…

But it was too late. I saw the tire of his wheel go past the mailbox first, and he braked to a halt. I stopped too, a little disappointed. “Oh well, I guess I didn’t make it.”

He shook his head. “No, no! You beat me!” he said, smiling and jumping around the pavement. “You won! You beat me!” He took off his helmet, and threw it on the grass, and he gave me a high-five. “That was awesome! You passed the test!”

I knew he just wanted to pass me and make me feel better. He was the best teacher a fourth-grader on a scooter could ever ask for.

The next summer, I remember there being a garage sale in front of his house. My mother told me they were moving to Milton, and Miguel wouldn’t be coming back to school. I wasn’t sad. I thought we’d see each other again, and we’d hang out like old times, and race bicycles and scooters again…

It’s been six years since then, and I haven’t seen him since. Miguel, my best friend on my street, taught me about friendship, happiness, and what it really means to be a child and let go. I had never learned as much about that as I did from a few scooter lessons down my street.

Summer of grade four… I’ll never forget.