Wheels, Pt 1.75 - I (Still) Want to Ride My Bicycle...

The summer after 10th grade I took on a paper route. The guy who had it before me took me along on the back of his Honda Cub 50 scooter[1] a few times, and I fell in love with it. I really wanted to buy one, but my parents weren't ready for that. I needed something heavy duty, something with serious carrying capacity. I ended up with another red Schwinn, a heavy duty 26" single speed with a giant front basket and two rear baskets.

Dad was primarily interested in this bike holding up. I was more interested in multiple speeds; Augusta had some serious hills! On the plus side, I developed good leg muscles.

The truck delivered the papers to the Texaco at Monte Sano and Central (no longer there). We were supposed to be there around 2PM to start folding, rubber banding and packing the papers (and wrapping them if it might rain). By 3 we had typically started the route. One of my best friends, John Steiner, also had a route (he started first and found mine for me) (he started first and found mine for me). We'd work together to get ready, and some days we'd ride part of each other's routes together. Other friends-- Joe beck, Claude Thompson, and Matt West would usually meet to hang out while we got the papers ready, and sometimes ride with us.

I took on a second route. It doubled my money, but quadrupled the hills. On the plus side, John and I would race down about a mile of 15 degree to 20 degree slope on Central Avenue. That was a blast, other than the day John hit a parked car (I was elsewhere) and flipped over the top, destroying the front end of his bicycle. I doubt mine would have fared better.

During this time, we also were sneaking out of our houses early in the morning. Our "gang" would roam around the city, avoiding headlights, hanging out in friends' yards, and generally just enjoying our freedom. A couple of the guys got picked up twice by the cops. Both times they simply took them home and didn't wake their parents up.

That summer I also rode my cousin Simms' minibike around Fairfax, SC, especially on a neighboring farm. I got sideways trying to jump it and crashed, cracking the crankcase. It refused to run. I felt horrible and offered to pay for it. Simms told me to keep quiet. Dad kept pushing me to get a repair estimate but Simms wasn't having it; he was bugging his parents to let him have the hand me down car from his older brothers. That eventually worked and he sold the minibike. I got off Scot free.

The "gang" got into trouble near the end of the summer. Since afternoon paper routes included the Sunday morning paper, I'd been using that as an excuse to get out even earlier Sunday morning. One of those Sunday mornings we got caught somewhere we shouldn't have been and my parents made me quit my job.

Some time during the school year, that bike was stolen off our front porch. We never even had a clue who took it. That week, Martin Goodale decided to sell his 10 speed Schwinn racing bike (he road raced a lot) to help fund a new, better race bike. He had put about a thousand dollars into the Schwinn but sold it to me for $125. I was in love.

About the only thing I didn't use that bike for was going to school; Westside was too far away, with too much traffic on Washington Road. I rode it everywhere else. It stayed in Augusta the next summer when I bought the Yamaha 80 and worked in Atlanta, but I rode it a good bit my senior year.

After we graduated high school Martin O'Rourke and I put at least a couple of thousand miles on our bikes. We went all sorts of places within a 50 mile radius. We spent several hours on July 4th in an empty, six story parking garage at a downtown bank. We'd ride up and race down, ride up and race down. After a couple of hours we sometimes took the elevator up. Once we carried the bikes up a stairwell, just because. Sometimes we'd hear a car coming, move aside as someone raced up then raced back down and roared off. We wished we'd thought to bring skates.

There's nothing quite like drifting a 10 speed on racing tires across sealed concrete, huge cement beams inches away, avoiding oil spots, dirt and leaves, and the occasional, candy apple red, Plymouth Roadrunner.

Later that summer Phil Sacco, Dan Croft and I were at a service station across from Daniel Field airport, putting air in the tires before a road trip. Phil emptied his back tire, adjusted it slightly on the rim, and hooked it up to the compressor (it had a low airflow setting), and started talking with the mechanic. A minute later, we noticed that Phil's tire had grown about an 8" bubble on one side. About then the tire exploded, sounding like a .45 caliber pistol under the metal awning. We all jumped at least a foot. Two of us rode while Phil walked about a mile to the nearest place we could buy him a new tube and tire.

After that we stuck with hand pumps.

I took the Schwinn with me to Georgia Tech. It served me well in Atlanta (even hillier than Augusta), both on and off campus. One afternoon that first September in college I rode about 10.5 miles each way up North Ave and Northside Drive, out past West Paces Ferry to Mr Hale's house. During Rush Hour. I was going about 40MPH in 45-50MPH traffic. Cross streets were hairy; at least twice someone pulled out in front of me and I swear my clothes brushed their bumper as I passed. I rode home just before dark; traffic wasn't nearly as bad. The uphills were still brutal, the downhills exhilarating.

One night the following quarter I came back to the dorm really late from a party. I was exhausted and rather drunk. I'd walked the bike home as much to help stay upright as anything. I couldn't get the lock to engage, so I just wrapped the chain around the bike and the park bench in front of the dorm, thinking it looked locked.

Needless to say, it was gone the next morning.

This is called a stupid tax. I recommend not paying this one.

[1] Tag line: "You meet the nicest people on a Honda!"