As a kid, the thing that gave me the most Tiggerish joy imaginable was riding a bike. Not mine, Bobby’s. Bobby lived next door and was abnormally good at sharing. He let me take his blue Schwinn Hornet with the two-tone saddle up the hill to a long flat road.
Pablo Neruda says in Ode to Bicycles that a bike ride is an occasion to give your “eyes to summer” and your “head to the sky.” I say it’s the perfect escape from the fears and worries of childhood. And beyond.
Maurice Sendak knows that the Wild Things are there all our lives.