In the “transportation museum” of my family, there was once an absolute “legendary superstar” – a fuel-powered three-wheeled cargo motorcycle. It didn’t come from a prestigious origin. Instead, my father dug it out from the second-hand car market as if he were hunting for treasures. When we first brought it home, it looked exactly like a “mysterious ride” that had driven out of some old western movie.

The motorcycle was covered with patchy red paint, as if it had been randomly smeared by the brush of time. In many places, the rusty iron sheets underneath were exposed, just like it was covered with “freckles”. Every time it was started, the sound of the motor was simply like a “roar of a fierce lion”. It could not only scare the cats and dogs in our house into running around in all directions but also startle the birds in the neighbor’s house into fluttering away. This sound seemed to be declaring to the whole world: “I, a three-wheeled motorcycle with a super personality, am about to make a dazzling appearance!”

As soon as summer came, sitting in this motorcycle was simply a form of “torture”. The narrow space inside the vehicle instantly turned into a giant “steamer”. The heat was like a group of naughty little devils drilling into you from all directions. Sitting inside, I felt like a Xiaolongbao being carefully cooked. Sweat gushed out from my forehead and back like a flood breaking through a dam. Once, I even jokingly said to my father, “Dad, we don’t need to modify this motorcycle. We can directly rent it out as a mobile sauna room. Maybe we can even earn a lot of money!”

Although this motorcycle had a lot of problems, in our family, it had made great contributions. If we compare the life of our family to an exciting adventure, then it was definitely my father’s most capable “war horse”. Every day, my father drove it, dashing through the streets and alleys. He either took me to school or carried all kinds of goods to work. Once, my father went to transport building materials, and a full load of bricks piled up like a small hill in the carriage. Standing aside and looking at it, I murmured in my heart, “Can this small body bear it?” As a result, it really swayed and started with a huff, like a fearless warrior, never bowing its head to any difficulties.

During my high school years, I had a love-hate relationship with this “treasured” motorcycle. Every time my father took me to school, I was like a thief, asking him to stop the vehicle far away from the school. Why? It was just because I was afraid that my classmates would see me sitting on such a “shabby antique” and I would lose face. Once, I had just gotten off the vehicle and was about to sneak away when I turned around and bumped into the “loudmouth” classmate in my class. He widened his eyes, looked at the motorcycle behind me, and shouted loudly, “Wow, this motorcycle of your family is really cool! Did you borrow it from which museum?” I was so embarrassed at that moment that my face instantly turned as red as a ripe tomato, and I wished I could find a crack in the ground and crawl in. While complaining in my heart that the motorcycle was too eye-catching, I had to admit that it indeed had a unique “retro charm”.

Once, our whole family went out together, but halfway through the journey, the motorcycle suddenly “threw a tantrum”. The engine made a few rattling sounds and then completely stopped working. My father was as anxious as an ant on a hot pan in the driver’s seat. He kept fiddling with various buttons and muttering to himself, “Old buddy, don’t let us down at this moment!” My mother and I then used all our strength to push the vehicle from behind. The three of us were like the protagonists in a farce. My father “commanded” in the front, and my mother and I pushed with all our might in the back. Every step we took felt like a challenge to the limits of human physical strength. Passers-by cast curious glances one after another. A naughty child even shouted loudly, “Come on, uncle and aunt! Are you playing a vehicle-pushing competition?” At that moment, I really wished that this motorcycle could instantly regain its power and take us away from this embarrassing scene.

After that “vehicle-pushing incident”, I couldn’t hold back anymore and said to my father, “Dad, let’s sell this motorcycle. It’s too unreliable.” Maybe the motorcycle had really reached the age of “retirement”, or maybe my father had a new change in his job. In any case, not long after, it was sold at a “rock-bottom price”.

Later, I had to squeeze onto the bus to go to school every day. In the crowded carriage, I was jostled around by the crowd, while still holding my schoolbag and various books tightly in my hands. Every time at this moment, I would miss that three-wheeled motorcycle that I had once disliked so much. Although it was shabby and old and always had all sorts of problems, it brought me a unique sense of freedom. Sitting on it, the wind blowing in my face seemed to carry the smell of home. Now I finally understand that some things can only be known to be precious after they are lost. Just like the “legendary” fuel-powered three-wheeled cargo motorcycle in my family, although it has left us, the laughter and memories it brought us will always remain in our hearts. Maybe one day, I will sit on it again in my dream and start a new adventure journey with it!