Purple and teal, the typical 90s trike, and it was mine. Gone were the days of teetering balance, clumsy foot-placements, stubbed toes and scraped knees. Toddler me was ready to cruise around the house on three wheels. Though it wasn’t big and it was difficult to steer, this tricycle did have one magical feature: it could pedal backwards.

Yes, gone were the days of teetering balance. Now I would simply fall off my seat if I leaned too far. Clumsy foot-placements were replaced by clumsy steering, and stubbed toes and made way for dented floors and scuffed table legs. My toddler quirks were still there, but now they were causing problems more for my mother than for me. Steering backwards was an especially big problem as I would recklessly crash into whatever I couldn't see behind me. But oh, how I loved to steer myself backwards!

The years went on and I grew out of that tricycle, but we kept it just the same. I loved returning to ride it after a long, hard day of two-wheeled-bike-riding. My mom protested that I was too old and my legs were too long, but I wouldn’t leave the tricycle riding to be enjoyed solely by my siblings. My bike was handed down to my sister, and my brothers got toddler bikes of their own. Despite the fact that my bike had been upgraded by now, it felt like a downgrade compared to all the fun my younger siblings seemed to have on their tricycles. So I, as the oldest, decided to have some fun with those trikes too.

For all the things tricycles can’t do when you’re young, they are very fun to manipulate when you’re older. Tricycles can zoom faster than scooters, turn slower than bicycles, and keep you close to the ground so that if you fall off it isn’t so bad. Above all, they can do what no other bike can: drive backwards. My training wheeled bike couldn’t drive backwards, and so I was missing an essential part of bicycle riding.

Naturally I wasn’t the only one with ideals of riding these tricycles again; my cousins also seemed to like the idea a lot. We decided to play “neighborhood.” Each of us drew a miniature “house” out of chalk on my front sidewalk, complete with a chalk garage. We drew lines up and down the driveway like a road. We drew gas stations and school and shops and post offices, and we had to ride our tricycles to our imaginary jobs. To top it all off, we had races. Zooming and slow steering came in handy down my driveway and made our reckless speeding even more fun. But the tricycle cop always came, pulled you over, and forced you to pay a ticket (whatever that was). Despite that imaginary infraction, however, the bikes made everything worth it.

This became our favorite game to play. Each time my cousins visited, you could bet we were racing around my driveway and violating oversimplified traffic laws. Even in the winter, when snow and ice covered my driveway, we would take out snow shovels and hack away until we had cleared an effective path in the snow. We would obey the rules of our neighborhood until we got bored, and then it was a constant up-down repetition of zooming down my driveway and hiking back to the top for another go.

I was not an overly-imaginative child, but that tricycle served as a catalyst for many half-baked imaginary adventures. If I could only have a tricycle, I had a car. A train. An airplane. A bus. I could go anywhere and do anything.

Then I grew up, and so did my cousins. Those tricycles are long gone, but my driveway remains the same and serves as a childhood reminder every time I ride my two-wheeled bicycle out of the garage. I remember the days when something as simple as driving backwards was a thrill, and part of me wants to go back. It’s not just the tricycle I miss, it’s the playset we no longer have. The dolls whose names I no longer remember. The pretend salads I used to make out of weeds and leaves with my best friend in the back yard. The imagination. The freedom. Surely outdoor games are not gone for me; I still play capture the flag with my cousins, and bike rides are a favorite form of exercise. But I no longer chase criminals; chasing is merely tag for me. And when I ride my bike it’s not in a car race. It’s not even a game anymore. It’s a pastime.

I held onto my youthful imagination for a long, long time. I remember one day building a cardboard house in my front yard for little rubber eraser toppers shaped like animals. A boy three years younger than me came down the street and eyed my progress, snarkily asking if I wasn’t too old to play such games. I defensively replied “no,” but I never forgot that conversation. When did imagination become socially unacceptable? It has remained necessary to me. But as necessary as I believe it to be, my tricycle sits in the corner of someone else's garage now. It has for many years.

So as I ride my bicycle in a monotonous journey down the canal trail, I long for younger days when imagination shone from my face as if it were a mark of beauty. I remember my younger days and the untold adventures bike riding use to be. A part of me always aches to go back; there are things children know that we forget as we grow older. If I had the power to turn back time, I almost believe I would--if only for a day.

But when I pedal backwards now, my bike still moves forwards.