Among other things, my mother was very vain about her skin and so did not like to stay outside at all if she could avoid it. Also, she grew up on a ranch in Argentina, and rode horses plenty, but once she came to the US with my father she absolutely eschewed any activity remotely athletic. The truth is, I did not recall she even knew how to ride a bike, nor that she ever had.
But there she is, riding what appears to be the old Steyr three-speed, bought from Sears, which carried me back and forth to junior high school in my mid-teens.
So this image must be some forty-three years old. And it is totally posed; in fact it expresses absolutely nothing about my mother or her life.
The bike was awful. The hub gears had a tendency to slip into a false neutral when I was climbing a hill, causing me to slam my nuts on the top tube, and I switched to derailleur bikes as soon as I could beg one from my dad. (He was an engineer, and could design skyscrapers in his sleep, but adjusting a three-speed hub was not something even to be considered.)
My old man probably took the picture. I wonder what he did to persuade my mother to ride for the camera....
Chances are he suffered for it later, too.