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!"

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.

Wheels, Pt I

Like a lot of guys, I've been in love with anything on wheels almost as far back as I can recall. Cars, trucks, bikes, skates, you name it.

My first serious wreck was on a trike, towing a Radio Flyer wagon. One of my best friends (and next door neighbor), Clifford Bossie, and I had been playing some intense game with our trikes for hours. All I remember was that it involved going really fast and stopping suddenly. It grew dark as we played. For the thousandth time I stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk but this time Clifford ran into me. I ate the bars on the way down, and broke all my front teeth, seriously repositioning them all along the way. The dental surgeon who pulled them left fragments. It took two more visits to get all the pieces out. The permanent teeth grew in the same screwball way the baby teeth had come out. It took several years of braces in Jr. High & High school to mostly straighten the mess out. I think my parents blamed Clifford, but it was just one of those things; we were always running into each other. We were boys.

My first bike was a bright red, used Murray with a luggage rack on the back sporting a skull and crossbones sticker courtesy of the previous owner. I rode the wheels off it until it was stolen. For some reason I always had problems with bicycles and thieves.

I then got an honest-to-goodness Schwinn, a big hunka steel with 20" wheels and a front basket. When this one got stolen from school my dad and I rode around the neighborhood until we saw a kid on it. We followed him home. Dad confronted his disbelieving parents and we got the bike back. The same kid stole the bike twice more; the last time my Dad made it clear the police would knock on their door the next time. The thefts stopped.

All my first real 2-wheeled wrecks were on this bike, including my first head dive from showing off, and my first run-in with a car.

I remember riding this thing to school in all kinds of weather. In the 6th grade I even did this carrying a trombone by its case's handle looped over one handlebar.

Head dive

One day in the 3rd or 4th grade, Clifford and I were riding our bikes home from school, engaged in typical 9 year old boy type bike-riding activities - showing off, playing combat aircraft, playing cops & robbers, playing cowboys & Indians, trying new things.

After a particularly brutal chase of some sort, during which I'm pretty sure we killed each other at least a dozen times, he started weaving. I wove wilder. He wove insanely. I switched to a high-speed, fast wobble, which got out of control and I ended up doing a headstand at 5 or 10 MPH. Screaming, I jumped back on the bike, raced home, with Clifford trying to keep up with this madman, ran in and denied I had done anything. In fact, Clifford must have cut me off!

I wasn't a habitual liar. But somewhere between panic (blood gushing from my head!), pain, shock, and embarrassment I'd lost it. Mom put me on restriction from playing with "that kid" for life. It was several years before I admitted it had been my fault. Clifford forgave me, figured I had been out of it. I don't think my Mom ever really believed that, and last I knew, she still thought it was Clifford's fault. She did let us play together the last year I was in El Paso. We'd had to play together as outlaws til then. I lost a couple of years of excellent friendship because I couldn't accept responsibility for my own mistakes, and it would have served me right to have lost his friendship forever.

Meet the Truck

One summer when I was 8 or so, I was riding back home from a nearby 7-11 on my shiny, red Schwinn. Once I got away from traffic and onto the quiet street I lived on, I couldn't stand waiting, and started reading the comic I had just bought.

While riding the bike.

People almost never parked their cars on the street; everyone had ample driveways and carports. Unfortunately someone was washing a car and had moved their pickup into the street. Keeping the curb in my peripheral vision, I knew I was doing fine, and just as some new kid in Sgt. Rock's platoon, whom everyone had been ragging on, spotted an enemy in a tree, I ran Smack Dab into a bumper. Blam! Stop. Splat. The guy washing his car almost wet himself laughing.

I jumped on the bike and tore out for home, my face the color of my nice, red bicycle, to read my comic in the privacy of my bedroom.