The Bicycle

I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was nine, an old man in bike riding years. I got a bike for my birthday a couple of years before that, but it just leaned against the wall in the carport, getting rusty. This wasn’t a cool, sporty bike like most kids had; that would come much later. It also wasn’t a ten-speed “racing bike,” with hand-brakes; that would come much, much later.

This was one of those old, giant, 26", one-speed, coaster-braked monsters that you can’t even find anymore. My dad tried to teach me how to ride, but apparently pushing me down a hill and hoping I’d figure it out didn’t work. So it sat. And rusted.

Then one day, my best friend, Donnie, comes riding up the street on his little brother’s 20-inch Spider bike. These were what’s happening, with a banana seat and raised handlebars. Donnie was tall and skinny and looked gangly on that little 20" frame. I laughed and said, anybody could ride that little bike.

So he dared me.

Now, I had to ride. I straddled the frame, pushed off down the hill, and…

I rode.

I rode all the way to the bottom of the hill and even managed to find the brakes.

And that’s when my bike riding days began.

When I got home, I took my old bike off the wall and put down the kickstand. Then I got some oil rags and a can of three-in-one oil and went to work. I didn’t make much progress on the old rust, but I got it in good enough shape to ride.

And ride I did.

From that point on, no destination was too far. Anything within a three-mile radius was not out of reach. This was a time before play dates, bicycle helmets, or bike paths. You told your parents, “I’m going to go ride my bike,” and that’s all they needed to know. “Be back for dinner,” were the last words you heard as you headed out the door. That is if they even know you left.

Saturday mornings, before the cartoons even started were my time. My parents slept late on the weekends, so I had hours to kill. I’d get up about six and eat a bowl of cereal, probably Trix or Fruit Loops. Then I mounted my trusty steed and rode. Back then, on those roads, at that time of day on the weekend, you could ride for miles without seeing a car or another person. I just picked a direction and went.

Not only were helmets unheard of back then, if it was warm enough to ride, I was barefoot, even after the accident.

One local destination was our elementary school, only about three blocks away. But it had sidewalks all the way around, which made a great race track. It had woods in the back with narrow trails to speed through. It had a big playground for practicing wheelies and skidding to a stop at high speeds.

And it had the hill.

The hill was probably much smaller and less steep than I remember. There was a huge long section that was dug out to burn trash. Another thing people did back then, was burn anything combustible, and a few things, like old broken glass that wasn’t.

Riding down that hill on a bicycle was a feat for only the bravest among us.

Or, in my case, the dumbest.

Once again, they dared me to do something, so after everybody else sped down the hill and survived, it was my turn. What I didn’t notice, was that everyone else rode their brakes all the way down in more of a controlled skid.

That’s not what I did.

No, I got a running start and began peddling down that hill for all it was worth.

Then a sequence of events took place over about five seconds. First, I got going so fast that my bare feet flew off the pedals. The big toe on my right foot got stuck in the spokes and provided a braking mechanism when the toe met with the front fork, creating mortal injury number one. Next, the bike skidded to a stop, slew sideways, and canted over into the fire pit. My right knee, which was also bare, found one of the broken pieces of glass, creating mortal injury the second.

But I rode down the hill.

Today, this would produce a call to 911 and a trip to the emergency room.

In 1964, it was rubbing alcohol and Band-Aids.

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