When I was ten my dad helped me buy my first ten-speed bicycle from Allen. I put up $60 of my grass cutting and snow shoveling   money and my dad put up the other half I would pay him back over the next six months. Although it was not in the latest style, it was my ticket to the adult world. I spent that summer and autumn riding happily. My sister Liz, a prisoner of her five-speed bicycle, never had a chance to keep up. Just before the Christmas deadline to pay my dad back, we were hit with several snowstorms. This allowed me to shovel enough driveways   to pay off my debt. I was now officially a bike owner; it was a feeling unlike any other. On that Christmas morning, my dad gave me a used portable   record player. I was excited. However, my joy was short-lived after my dad called my sister to the kitchen. "We have one more gift for you." he said as he opened the door that led to the garage. There, on the steps, stood a new ten-speed bicycle. "It's not fair," I complained. "I worked so hard for my bike and it's not even new. Then Liz gets a new bike. She didn't have to do anything for it. " My dad smiled. "She didn't have to do anything for it because it' s not really for her," he said. What did that mean? I didn't want her bike. By spring Liz and I were riding all over town together now that she could keep up. As we grew, Liz and I became true friends. Still I wasn't smart enough to figure out what my dad meant until years later. That new bike was not a gift for Liz -- it was a gift for me. He'd given me the gift of my sister's company, the ability to stay together rather than drift apart   in the face of my ability to travel. He gave me my best friend. Why was the author's Christmas joy short-lived?
His sister got a new record player. His father didn't care about him. The record player wasn't new. His sister got a better gift.