Abigail (not Abbie, or Abs, or Gail - her father made that clear when we first met) doesnt drive. For one thing, she has never needed to. She went to school in the computer-littered basement of her own home, and lives near the local Wal-Mart where she works during breaks.
The most likely dissuasion for auto acquisition is that her dad expects her to support a car. Shed have to pay - for car, gas, maintenance, and (the biggy) insurance.
Now shes in college, with scholarships helping ease the way, and no way to earn money for a car if she wanted one.
More and more kids are choosing not to drive, and observers of teen behavior suggest that fear is part of the deterrent. Fear is healthy. If it keeps incompetent teens out from behind the steering wheel in a high-trafficked environment, fear is healthy for all of us.
Abigails home is in the fast-growing environs of Washington, DC, and shes a student at Mary Baldwin, a womens college in Staunton, Va., a town with some of the most tortuous streets and blind intersections Ive ever seen.
The solution to Abigails local transportation needs is a bicycle. She has been a serious cyclist for at least the seven years weve known her, and probably more.
She rode all over her hometown, and when she wanted a real getaway, shed ride as much as 60 miles - just for fun. Virginia supports rail-to-trails systems connecting little towns to bigger towns via unused railroad beds, and are wonderfully safe for cyclists as well as pedestrians.
College students, even those in the ROTC program, need SO MUCH STUFF just to survive, and for Abigail, that stuff included her bike, perfect even for the murderous hills in Staunton.
When she went off to college the first time, about two hours from home, her paternal grandparents took her. It was a poignant moment: They took her to the hospital where she held her new baby brother for mere minutes, then was whisked away.
(Am I the only one bemused by the fact that the number of permanent residents in their Leesburg townhouse remains the same?)
Abigail is a sweet young woman in incredible physical condition, took to college readily, maintains a 4.0 average, and keeps her bike in prime condition.
That is, up until last fall when it was stolen from campus.
She was just going to run into a classroom where she had left a book, didnt lock the bike, and when she came out, it was gone.
She filed reports with both campus and town police, but was offered little hope it would ever be found. She remembered later that she may have actually left it several days, not moments - but what cretin would be wandering around this Alpine landscape to swipe a womans bike?
Abigail did not whine or complain, accepting the fact that it was her fault and she should not expect anyones sympathy.
She was unwittingly complicit in another theft, incidentally. She was late to work when she was home over Thanksgiving, and borrowed her younger brothers bike. All her saved Christmas shopping money went for its replacement.
And from then on, Abigail simply walked.
Her dad, however, a high school math teacher raising four kids on a school-teachers salary, spread the word secretly among relatives, suggesting that anyone who was thinking of a Christmas gift for Abigail might make it a cash gift instead.
A few days before Christmas, Brian loaded up Abigail and me, and took us to the bike shop at a nearby shopping center. The proprietor was beyond helpful, pulling out bike after bike, comparing features yet unheard of when Abigails first bike was built.
She knew what she needed, and cast a wise eye over each, even straddled a couple to see how they felt. The proprietor simply let her choose - she obviously knew what she wanted, even to the unisex angling of the frame that newer bikes have.
When she finally homed in on a handsome Raleigh, the bike man told her hed pull one out of his stock, unpack it, and have it assembled in about an hour. While Brian settled the bill (not nearly as much as we had expected), Abigail stood next to me, a little apart. I heard a sob and saw a sleeve pass over her face.
Whats this? I asked her quietly. Tears of joy or tears of sorrow?
She shook her head and amazed me with her answer. Neither, she snuffled. I guess I believed that as long as I didnt let go of hope, my old bike would turn up or the police would find it. I loved that bike so much.
I could only stand there holding her until her grief was spent, marveling that there are still young women as innocent as this one, at just-turned-20 years.
Well, maybe not THAT naïve - her first purchase to go with the bike was a lock that probably could keep a Volkswagen from rolling down one of Stauntons hills.