| On a desert Christmas morning, 1981
|
| One month shy of six years old
|
| In the valley of the sun
|
| My first two-wheel bicycle stood by the tree
|
| My heart thumping in my chest
|
| Though I’d tried, I couldn’t ride one yet
|
| Out on our street when my dad let go of the seat
|
| I rode off and down the road
|
| Somehow I never went back home
|
| But I remember what it was like
|
| Astride my yellow bike
|
| First freedom, second life
|
| All the places I could ride
|
| Leaving early packing light
|
| That little ache inside
|
| My kingdom for someone to ride with
|
| Now a highwayman who traded in his handlebars
|
| Going back and forth
|
| In vans and rental cars
|
| On the 10, the 5, the 90, and the 95
|
| In love with every stretch of road
|
| But when I drive them on my own
|
| They remind me what it was like
|
| Astride that yellow bike
|
| My kingdom for someone
|
| Some folks are loners
|
| And you learn from them
|
| If you’ve always been a joiner
|
| On the move again
|
| But if you keep your legs pumping
|
| Despite everything
|
| Well, you can take that sting
|
| You can make it swing
|
| Just remember what it was like
|
| Astride that yellow bike
|
| First freedom, second life
|
| All the places I could ride
|
| Leaving early packing light
|
| That little ache inside
|
| My kingdom for someone to ride with
|
| I’d trade my kingdom for someone to ride with |