Not fair doesn't mean no
I was nine. There was a bike involved.
By third grade, I had secured the coveted purple sparkly bike with the low-slung banana seat. Purple tassels flew from the front handlebars. A woven white basket with plastic flowers hung on the front. I rode that bike around my cul-de-sac and up and down the street day after day ringing my silver bike bell to let people know I was coming through.
But then Brian Hawley, a year older than me, started riding his new ten-speed bike with the hand brakes around the cul-de-sac, and suddenly my purple sparkly banana seat bike seemed a little less sparkly.
When I inquired of my mother as to whether I could have a ten-speed bike, she asked, “How much babysitting money do you have saved up?”
I replied, “It's too expensive for my babysitting money,” and then I proceeded to beg for the bike, saying something like, “but it's not fair, Brian Hawley has a ten-speed bike and he’s only a year older than me.”
My mom said, “Well, sometimes life's not fair.”
So I spent the summer after third grade riding around the cul-de-sac on my banana seat bike trying to do the math on how many hours I would need to babysit at 25 cents an hour to afford the bike I wanted.
Meanwhile, Brian Hawley sat perched up on his ten-speed bike circling the rest of us like a hawk.
The start of the new school year came around, and along with it, the MS Society Read-a-Thon. Being a voracious reader in elementary school, I'd always participated in it, but never really had my eye on the prize. But this year, the prize was a $100 gift certificate to Ted's Toy Store, and I knew in the back of that toy store was a rack of bikes, including ten-speeds.
For the next two weeks, every minute that I wasn’t at school, I had my head in a book. Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie. Every evening, all weekend long, reading with one goal in mind.
Usually with these fundraisers, my stumbling part was going around asking for money. I've never been particularly good at cold calling or door-to-door sales. But this year, there was a ten-speed bike at stake. So despite the pit in my stomach, I knocked on every door on my street and the next two streets over asking for pledges per book. Most pledges were for 5 cents, 10 cents, or if I was lucky, 25 cents a book. Not everyone said yes. Some people turned me down flat. Not everyone could buy into my cause.
And then I called my granny. I'm not sure she completely understood what she was signing up for when she pledged three dollars a book, but I made it my mission to turn her three dollars a book into the prize-winning amount for that year's read-a-thon.
When it was finally time to hand over our pledge sheet showing books read and the amount we had raised, I had read 28 books during the two weeks and had raised $192. Granny was my most generous supporter at $84. I still remember her laughing when I called to tell her how much she owed me. But she wrote the check.
At the school assembly that week, I was declared the winner of our annual MS Society Read-a-Thon.
That weekend, with my prize winnings in hand, I wound my way through the maze of tall shelves to the back of Ted's Toy Store and pointed to the forest green ten-speed Schwinn. After Ted himself pulled it down off the rack, I handed over my gift certificate to him.
I walked it out of the store with a click, click, click from the gears. My dad loaded it into the car and we brought it home.
Once home, I took a few spins to get the hang of the brakes and then I headed out of the neighborhood and rode my new bike down the steep hill, no helmet, no hands, my ponytail flying behind me, all the way to the beach near my house.
And with my bike parked next to me, I sat there on a rock and looked out into the ocean, keeping one hand on the curled-down handlebar. Every few seconds I’d glance over to make sure it was really mine.
That bike stayed with me from fourth grade all the way through college. It followed me through seven moves and five different schools. Somewhere along the way I lost track of it. Probably part of the collateral damage of my parents downsizing into their empty nest home. Which I completely understand now.
My mom was right when she said, “Sometimes life isn’t fair.” Brian Hawley’s ten-speed showed up in his driveway and mine didn’t. But what I didn’t understand at nine years old was that “not fair” doesn’t mean no. It means finding another way.
Looking back, getting that bike taught me much more than how to ride a ten-speed. It taught me how to ask. To knock on doors. To hear no without giving up. To make the uncomfortable call to Granny to tell her what she owed. To keep going.
This week, I’m reminding myself of that before I send that email I’ve been putting off. Before I ask a new client to trust me with their business. Before I hit publish on something I’m not sure anyone will connect with.
I still get the same pit in my stomach I had going door-to-door for the read-a-thon, but I'm doing it anyway. That feeling isn’t telling me to stop. It's reminding me that I'm probably standing at the beginning of something worth working for.
How about you?
Cheers,
Carrie