Here is an essay that I wrote that I think is very good. What do you think?

I can still remember the day when I first received my bicycle. It was not brand new from the store; in fact it had been used before, but that was insignificant because it bore the name that was revered by me and by many other mountain biking enthusiasts: MURRAY. It was the ultimate riding machine, with a super light alloy frame and aluminum rims fitted with 17" Flying Vane tires that sparkled when they spun. Although it had been used before it was still in pristine condition, a testimony of the good care that it had received from its previous owner. The grip shift gear change system worked perfectly, and, as I rode it around the backyard a couple of times, I knew that this bike would be the love of my life for many years to come. That day I felt that nothing that had ever been given to me, or that I could get, could be of more joy than this bike, and I took special care every time I rode it to make sure that it was never scratched or received rough handling. I also made sure that whenever I was not using it that it was safely secured in our garage by chaining it to a low cupboard. Some of my friends at the time complained that I was spending more time with, and paid more attention to the bike than I did to them, a statement that I knew was true at the time but never admitted to them. As the years went by, I tried to keep the bike in good condition, but I got busier with schoolwork and other commitments. Slowly the bike faded out of my life's picture, and, as with everything in the world, it started to age. The signs were not very visible at first, but as time progressed I started to notice the effects that time and my negligence had brought upon the bike. First, little rust spots started appearing on the frame and the rims started losing their shine. Then the seat started cracking up and showing sponge in certain areas. Sometimes it would seem that the bike would be crying out to me, asking me what it had done to receive this kind of treatment. It seemed to be saying:Why do you treat me with such disdain? Have I not served you or my former master well enough?,Am I not your friend?� I kept promising myself, or rather the bike, that I would find the time to repair it, but my schedule did not get any less hectic, and so the deterioration continued. Sometimes I would force myself to break away from my work, and I would go down to the garage and look at the bike. I would just stand there, and it seems that as if by some magical means I would find myself catapulted back in time, and there would be flashbacks of colorful, vivid images of me riding through the town. I would remember how happy I felt and exactly how the tires sounded on the street; the smooth ripple of the beads on the tarmac, like marbles over a washing board. Then I would touch the handlebars and remember how they felt when I gripped them as I rode up the steep incline of Montgomery Hill, I would let my fingers slide along the now rusted frame and remember how it reflected the sunlight perfectly and how the rims glittered as if made of silver. These flashbacks would last for not more than five minutes, but the time never really mattered because each time I would relive a moment in my life that I knew I would never again get to experience. It has been ten years now since I first saw my mountain bike, and though I may never again ride it I cannot bring myself to scrap it for parts or just throw it out because every once in a while I am able to pull myself away from whatever I am doing and go into the garage and this seemingly worthless piece of metal transforms itself into the beautiful mountain bike and takes me on a ride down the sunny streets of my town.

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