Motorcycles from my memory

My childhood was spent in a beautiful country town. My memories of the good times are always filled with my grandfather's loving face and the motorcycle that accompanied us every day.

The town of spring is the world of flowers. In a sea of flowers dense fragrance, this old town also faintly become more new vitality. At this time of the motorcycle, is my good spring flower "playmate", in bursts of blowing the face is not cold in the willow wind, my long hair in the wanton fluttering behind. "Fairy Flower" is my favorite game. The flowers are carefully selected by me, the most brilliant spring day, they were kneaded in a fist, a "small group". Then I climbed onto the bike and, with the wind wreaking around me, let go of my hand. The petals of various colors are like the spirit in general, dancing in the night breeze, and the smoke that curls up in the distance is also engraved into my memory.

The summer of the small town, the heat comes together with the heat. The town is like being put into a steamer general, everywhere is airtight hot. On the side of the road, the little face flushed by the sun was me in the summer of my childhood. Often at this time, the motorcycle becomes my summer magic weapon. Countless summer days, in the heat of the afternoon, Grandpa always let me eat a Popsicle. Then he took me round and round the town. The sweet and cool taste of the Popsicle, mixed with the hot wind brought by motorcycles, forms a wonderful chemical reaction. That again and again the throb to the bottom of my heart, I still can't forget.

In autumn, the town is full of leaves. At that time the dusk, is the memory of the composition the most beautiful moment, in late July, the town has early chill, like a child can not help freezing. After dinner, I insisted on going out. Wrapped in a small scarf woven by grandma's ingenuity, the coolness of autumn can no longer nai me. Sitting on grandpa's motorcycle, I gazed at the dark red sky for a long time, near is a big and round sunset, the golden light sprinkled on my body, the big white clouds in the distance, have been inlaid with gold, together into a piece, full of the sky, looks soft, like a big cotton candy. My grandmother's deep voice and my grandfather's strong and wind-resistant back became my autumn memories of the town.

In winter, the gentle town is always not too cold, a wake up, the ground has been a white frost. This is a good time to brew chrysanthemum tea. As early as a month ago, my grandfather and I two "zongzi" on the motorcycle, picked the chrysanthemum. The booty, in small bottles, stood on Grandma's locker. Waiting for the arrival of early winter, the whole family together. The impression of chrysanthemum tea is very different from the assembly-line products in today's supermarkets. Grandpa's chrysanthemum tea is not sweet at all, only a hint of chrysanthemum fragrance and a slight bitterness. Not sensible I often ask grandfather, why do you not love to drink sweet ah? At this time grandpa will always rub my head, smiling without a word, the remaining warmth of the fingers at the moment seems to have not gone away. My chrysanthemum tea is added honey, sweet and hot, small I can drink two or three bowls at a breath, warm chrysanthemum tea, is my winter the most practical, stable memory.

Four seasons of motorcycles like honda vario 150, with me through the colorful childhood.