Like Riding a Bike

When I was little, my parents bought me a little green dirt bike from a Jewish bazaar. I also had a larger silver new bike with a banana seat and training wheels. I could ride the newer one, but the height made me nervous and I needed my dad to lift me up to even get on the thing. The smaller bike I couldn't balance, and would generally walk it around the yard.

One Summer, my mom needed to stop in at the office of one of the local elementary schools where she worked as a teacher's aid, mercifully not my school. I waited out on the playground, and started chatting with a young girl. I was boasting about how good I was at riding bikes, and another little boy who had been playing there dared me to prove it. As you might imagine, this was well before I learned to keep quiet and stay out of trouble. I didn't want to look like a fool, so when the girl offered me her bike, I decided to ride it and impress her. I didn't want to look like a fool, but five minutes later my mom came outside to see her son riding back and forth in the parking lot on a pink bike with tassels on the handlebars, shouting that he was riding a bike. I didn't get the girl that day and never actually saw her again, but I couldn't wait to get home and finally ride my own bike.

I got a good year out of my green dirt bike, racing around my block and jumping it over tree roots and raised sections of the sidewalk. Soon I was tall enough to ride my other bike, but had become attached to the smaller one. It wasn't until I was riding down a hill on my front lawn and the seat rusted off completely, allowing the bike to continue into the driveway while the seat and I flew back, that I reluctantly gave up my old bike.

Say what you will about a banana seat, but it made it very easy to pop wheelies. Soon I was riding no hands, and playing tag with my friends while riding, tagging them by hitting them with a frisbee or a tennis ball. I'm certain I've written of those games on here before, as well as the various scrapes I endured flying over my handlebars when going off a curb or falling back when I pulled back too far on a wheelie. No area was off limits, and I especially enjoyed the trails of local nature preserves. My last bike was a respectable white ten-speed, and while my silver bike went up on hooks in our basement, the white one eventually settled in a shed in my backyard, never to be seen again once I got my driver's license. Occasionally my dad will suggest I check on the bike and whatever else I have in the shed, since I “don't know what rats or spiders are probably living in there!”, but somehow his words have actually discouraged me from opening those doors and peering in to the darkness.

Among the myriad items that had to be sold, donated or trashed prior to the final closing on my uncle's house was an old maroon bike from the ‘50s. My mom has a similar one hanging in our basement. After the first of many tag sales, my parents discussed the status of things with one of my uncles, while my other uncle stood in the hall, listening to everyone getting rid of his stuff:



“Nobody's biting on the bike, huh?” It didn't dawn on me then, but when my mom said a few days ago that my dad decided to take the bike, I remembered this video clip. This past Saturday I helped my dad put up new hooks in the ceiling to hang his new acquisition in our basement, and earlier in the week borrowed a pump from one of my friends for the tires. Apparently my dad threw my pump out years ago when the base rusted off. The tires were good, and he intends to ride it some time, which should be good cardiovascular exercise for him. It kind of matches my mom's too, and I like the mental image of this cute little old Italian couple riding through a park somewhere in the Spring. The whole thing kind of makes me wistful and nostalgic for my bicycle days, and almost curious enough to check if my ten speed is still any good. Almost.

When I was a kid, it was simple to just hop on and ride. At some point it became complicated. Now I would need gear. I'd have to wear one of those stupid helmets. I'd need to either ride with the flow of traffic rather than the sidewalk like I'm used to, or I'd have to strap the thing to my car and drive to some park or bike trail. It all seems like such a hassle now. My riding days are still behind me, but if a 76-year-old man can get a bike, it opens up possibilities for my own future and I realize I can't say that I'll never ride again. Of course, if I open up that shed when I’m over 70, I’d hate to think how big the hypothetical rats will have become.

Maybe I’ll just buy a hover-bike at that point.