It was Christmas morning in Toronto, and there it stood—a sleek green bike, shining brightly next to the tree. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was real. A bike? For me? This wasn’t just any gift—it was completely out of the blue, something I hadn’t even thought to wish for. But from the moment I hopped on, it became clear: this bike was exactly what I needed. Walking? Forget it. That was far too slow for an eighth-grader in a new city.

At the time, my family and I were settling into life in Toronto after moving for my dad’s job. Living in Bloor West Village, I shared a house with my parents, two older brothers, and my sister, who visited during holidays. My oldest brother, Mitch, was eight years older than me—a quiet, grounded figure who seemed to exist in a completely different world. At 20 or 21, he was practically an adult in my eyes, but I never imagined he’d play Santa for me that Christmas.

When I first laid eyes on the bike, I assumed it was a gift from my parents. Mitch? No way. Yet there he was, casually confirming that the bike was indeed from him. And it wasn’t just a store-bought bike. Mitch had built it himself, piece by piece, using spare parts from the bike shop where he worked. It was a handcrafted marvel with a Brooks seat, Shimano pedals, and a featherlight Serotta frame. It was built for speed, with thin racing tires and unique toe-clip pedals that felt like stepping into a whole new world of cycling.

For the next couple of years, that bike was my constant companion. I rode it everywhere, through the icy Toronto winters and across all kinds of terrain. But, being the self-absorbed teenager I was, I treated it with little care. I jumped curbs, tore through rough roads, and essentially turned a finely crafted racer into a makeshift mountain bike. By the time I was a bit older, the bike was in rough shape—creaking, worn, and clearly in need of some TLC.

One day, Mitch confronted me. He wasn’t angry, just curious. “How come you haven’t taken better care of the bike I gave you?” he asked. For a moment, I was caught off guard. Mitch rarely spoke to me, let alone called me out. But I could sense something deeper in his question—a quiet disappointment. I paused, thought about all the miles I had put on that bike, and for once, decided to be honest.

“You’re right,” I admitted. “I should have taken better care of it. But you know what? I’ve used it every single day since you gave it to me. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

Mitch nodded. “That’s true,” he said simply, his approval as understated as ever. That moment stuck with me, even as the years rolled by.

It’s been over three decades since that Christmas, and I still think about that green bike and the quiet generosity of my older brother. Mitch, if you’re reading this, thank you. Thank you for a gift that meant more than I could ever say. You didn’t just give me a bike—you gave me freedom, independence, and a lifelong memory of what it means to care deeply, even when words are few.

– Written in reflection of Mitch’s incredible kindness, by Matt Garvin