Wheels, Pt 1.5 - More of the Pre-Motorized Days

Remember that big, red Schwinn? That was the norm back then. One speed. Some form of basket. Bikes had to be practical as well as fun. Most students didn't carry a backpack or book bag so baskets were necessary for carrying school books and lunch, as well as comics, snacks, and whatever else you bought at the store (such as cigarettes for your parents or model glue for your models, provided you had a signed note and the store clerk or manager knew your parents).

Some people, mainly rich people or people we thought were off in their own, little worlds, had bikes with more than one speed. Three speeds were for old people or girls. Being boys in the early 60s, my friends and I prided ourselves on being able to keep up with any old three speed on our one speeds. I was convinced I could go 30; my Dad clocked me in his car one day. I went as fast as I could. My feet were a blur, my open jacket flapped like Superman's cape in the wind. I easily went 30, maybe 50! Dad's speedometer said 18.

I was shocked. No, I was devastated. Outwardly I accepted Dad's verdict (after a bit of arguing), but in my heart I knew the truth; his speedometer was broken. For months I half expected every cop we saw to pull Dad over for speeding. "I'm sorry, sir, but I have to give you a ticket. Have a nice day. And get that speedometer fixed, sir."

There's never a cop around when you need one.

Every once in a while we'd see a ten speed. We called them English Racers-- I have no idea why. Nobody around seemed to actually race. We assumed the French and others rode them and raced them as well. Perhaps the English invented them?

My friends an I knew some day we would own English Racers. Even if we weren't rich. We'd be cool, off in our own, little worlds (weren't we always?) With ten whole speeds, there was no limit to how fast we could go, hunched over those beautiful, down-turned handlebars. With hand brakes instead of coaster brakes!

When I started playing trombone in the 6th grade, I carried my trombone in its case to school on days we had band. Some days I walked. When I rode, I hung the case by its handle on the bars. It was awkward but it was the only choice for riding so I did it, and it worked.

There I was, riding a tank of a bike, books and a lunch box in the basket, a huge, heavy, brown thing slung under my handlebars and bonking my knee on a regular basis. Having a blast. Driving my tank, firing that big, brown cannon. Flying my plane, launching that big brown missile or shooting that big, brown machine gun. We saved the day often, my bike and I.

I've glossed over a few other conveyances. At some point, probably at five or six, I had a (red, what else?) scooter. They were heavier back then, made of steel. Like my first bike, it came to me used. I couldn't have cared less. I rode it constantly, but have no idea what happened to it. Probably stolen.

Around 7 or 8 I got roller skates. I loved skating but there was only so far you could go on the sidewalk. Still, I skated until I couldn't stand it. Some days I rode my bike with my skates on (this was before in-lines). One of my favorite things was to get going as fast as I could (18MPH, hah!) and drop down onto my skates, astraddle the bar, riding my skates and bike together.

The bar. The bar~ The bane of every boy's existence at some point. I always thought it was unfair that girls had bikes much more suited to doing crazy stuff without hurting the private parts. Mom explained to me that girls were more delicate and sensitive there. I told her that was impossible or they would die from the pain. I don't think I got through to her. I would never have admitted it, but I was somewhat jealous of a boy up the street with the padded bar. It was years later I found out how little that helped when you slipped off the seat.

November 11, 1966, a day that lives in infamy, we moved to Augusta, Georgia, 39 days before my 11th birthday. I believe it was some point in that year when I finally got a big bike, a 26", probably a Schwinn, and definitely red. Instead of a basket on the front, it had two baskets on the back. Saddle baskets. Just like a cowboy. Having left my beloved Texas for some silly state with too many trees and too little sky, I needed those baskets, a link (however tenuous) to Texas. A cowboy's bike.

My sisters ended up with purple Spyder style bikes-- banana seats and high bars. I was jealous. These were about the coolest bikes around! I wasn't allowed to ride them much; I might have broken them. My parents especially mistrusted the chain's ability to take abuse; it was about half the size of any bicycle chain we had ever seen. In fact the whole bike was fairly small. a marvel of compact, graceful design. I occasionally managed to ride one around the yard; they were just made for doing stunts. My sisters, girls to the core, simply rode them. I was happy for them, but it just seemed wrong.

My cousin (let's call him Ben) came to stay with us a couple of summers later while he went to the local college. Ben tended to do what Ben wanted to do. And one day what Ben wanted to do was ride one of the Spyder bikes. I rode my bike despite Ben's pressure to ride the other Spyder. We took off up Henry Street. At the far end of Henry Street we got to Ben's destination: The Hill. It was 1,000 feet long, at an angle between 30 and 40 degrees. We all loved to race down The Hill on bikes (or on crazy days, skates). Near the bottom we would lock up the brakes, skidding sideways through the terminal intersection to a halt just before, or just at, the far curb. End of the line. The trick was to stop as close to the curb as possible, ideally hitting it without falling over. Back up The Hill and do it again!

Ben stopped at the top of the hill as we sometimes did, and grinned. Then he took off down the Hill, pedaling as fast as he could, screaming for joy like the wild football player he'd been in high school. As he neared the bottom of The Hill, he stood up on the bike, pedaled backward hard to slam on the coaster brake and... froze as the chain snapped and the bike zoomed the last twenty five feet down the hill, through the cross street, up the packed dirt and leaves acting like a ramp at the curb, flew teen feet or more through the air, skidded through the muddy grass into the bushes and WHAM into the brick wall of the local synagogue.

Ben sustained only minor injuries, a few scratches. His head was harder than mine (and that's hard!), so he hardly bled (we all suspected he broke a brick or two). The bike, though... besides the broken chain the bars were bent, the tire popped, and several spokes were bent or broken. When Ben came out of his daze (whether medical or emotional I couldn't say) he tried to get me to walk the bike home while he rode mine. I wasn't having it. I wasn't touching that bike! I'd tried to talk him out of riding it and he hadn't listened. My fingerprints were not going on that bike. That rebelliously ridden bike. That banned bike. I had a hard time standing up to Ben, but fear is a powerful motivator.

My parents responded as expected. They'd trusted him, given him a second chance at college, and this was how he repaid them? Practically stealing and destroying my sister's bike and involving me? They tag teamed him for a good fifteen minutes. They made him pay to fix the bike and do what work he could (most of it) himself. He even had to touch up scratches, some of which probably weren't even from the bushes.

Sadly, I don't think he learned much from the experience.

Perhaps even more sadly, I don't think I did, either. But that's another story line.