Tough Love

I was six when dad came home with a new bike, for me. My first new bike. And I thought, ‘Wow, this is terrific. And dad… he’s terrific, too.’

It was painted a glossy green. It had chrome handlebars and fenders, rubberized brake pads on each wheel that were controlled by levers strategically positioned near the hand grips. And cooler than even all that, it had three speeds with a gear shift mounted on the crossbar.

This was the hottest new thing in bikes. It was called the Spyder Bike, with its Hell's Angels inspired high-reach handlebars, its banana-shaped seat, and to pull the whole profile together, a twenty-four inch chrome sissy bar riding up one's back. This was a racing machine, clearly, ready for immediate action.

So I tore ass down a hill that led to a hairpin turn, where you had to make a hard left… or hit a big tree. And I was going like a bat out of hell… my hair blowing in the wind… an action-movie soundtrack playing in my head. This was the best bike anyone ever had, I thought. What a dad I had.

When I got to the bottom of the hill, I put my left foot out, leaned into it, tightened my grip, and threw the handlebars hard left. And nothing… happened.

I mean, the handlebars spun around but the bike didn’t change direction! I was still heading straight for the big tree… really quickly.

So I ditched the bike into the dirt and gravel. Then I got up, brushed myself off, and pushed the bike back up the hill.

When I got home, I saw that dad was in the garage. I tossed the bike onto the lawn and went in to tell him about the handlebars having slipped loose. Before I could say anything, he pointed to a workbench and said, ‘9/16th wrench.’

Now… there was nothing else on this bench. Just that 9/16th wrench. I looked at the wrench… on the bench. I looked at the toolbox, where the wrench should have been. I looked back at dad and realized he already knew the handlebars were loose.

And I wondered… ‘How did he know that?! And why was that wrench on the bench?’ Well, the lone answer to both questions was that he knew because he’d used that 9/16th wrench to loosen the handlebars before giving me the bike.

Then he said, ‘You should check your gear before using it.’

What the Hell?! Check for what, I wondered? Sabotage? What’s next.. plastic explosives under the seat?

Anyway, a few days later, same bike, I'm coming up the driveway by the house, and I’m tearing it up. Just before I reached the back corner of the house, dad popped out. I stopped pedaling but I didn't stop.

When I got near enough, he reached a leg out and kicked this bike right in the middle of its frame with some kind of karate jujitsu juju bean trick kick, and I went flying through the air, falling up before falling down.

In midflight, I thought, ‘What Now? I Checked My Gear!’

When I hit the ground, he looked at me and said, ‘Be ready for surprises.’ And I wondered, ‘From Who? Everyone? Or Just You!’

But these were good lessons... this tough love. It was a dad's way. And it worked.

A few years later, after we'd moved into town, mom saw me checking in both directions before crossing the street. She said, ‘That's great that you check both ways for traffic.’

I said, ‘I ain't checking for traffic… I’m checking for Dad!’