A bicycle built for two

 Visible steam and foul language circled the air around his head, so we knew to make ourselves scarce.

It T minus Go Time and "The Dad" had started a "little project."

Therefore, we were avoiding "The Dad."

Our vacation was happening as per usual, now that Maine had lifted its ban on visiting New Yorkers, though our usual holiday calls for a fair amount of isolation anyway. 

But his sister had raised the stakes in their rivalry by announcing her family would be bringing bikes as a way to keep our vacation exciting while socially distanced.

So in the hours before we would leave and after he had packed, her brother dragged a collection of moldering bikes from the basement and lined them up on the driveway according to workload.

Two of the bikes were his and would require oil, new handle grips, and two new tires and inner tubes. (And he'll have to go back to the bike shop for a third inner tube because he'll forget to set the psi.

Our daughter's bike - the pink and yellow beach cruiser - needed all of that and a coat of paint so as not to be an embarrassment. She has become so much more sophisticated the five years since she picked out those candy colors. The worst part, of course, is that the bike's seat barely required adjustment. 

My bicycle - a relic of my early adolescence - just needed air in the tires and a dusting. My father had made its repair one his projects a few years ago as a surprise.

The last two bikes on the driveway were our son's and would require a little cleaning before they got handed down to someone they would fit. 

This development was just one of the things weighing on The Dad's mind. 

Bike shops have been cleaned out of inventory since April. How would he get the newly gangly teen up and rolling?

"He could use my bike," I said, thinking it's shade of blue could counterbalance the sway-barred center that indicates its gender role in the bike world.

The Dad works through the details in his mind before he sells our boy on the difficulties of riding a real racing style bike.

"Don't worry if you can't get it down right away ... racing bikes are temperamental."

Maybe it worked. 

After his test spin, the kid left the driveway and disappeared for an hour tooling around in the neighborhood. 

But maybe it was just the slightest taste of freedom on a bike that economized its user's energy instead of trying to spend it thoroughly by bedtime. 

Also, he hasn't left the house on his own since March.

"They don't call them "girls" bikes anymore," he instructs. "They're called Step-Throughs." 

Clearly, he wouldn't let seemingly arbitrary gender norms such as color selection or bicycle design determine his enjoyment of the open road.

Of course, this moment's progressive beauty would be lost once The Dad released a new stream of expletives into the air:

"@!)#% the bike rack doesn't accommodate step-through bikes. We'll have to improvise!"

We are still avoiding The Dad.