When I was a child I knew all the dips in the asphalt in my neighborhood, all the places where, if I pedaled really fast, I could for one blissful moment—down, up!—feel as if I were flying.
I remember riding my bike one bright fall day to meet my dad as he pedaled home from work on his black Schwinn. I took the route that led me through all my favorite spots: the dips, the bumps, the curves. When my dad came into view I saw a cardboard box balanced on his handlebars, and he was trying to tell me something. “A treasure!” I heard him shout when I got a little closer. “I’ve got a treasure!”