April 2, 2014 Article

The Old Coot is a peddler.
By Merlin Lessler

I saw something the other day, so rare, it startled me. Two kids were riding down the sidewalk on a single bike! One on the seat, peddling, the other sitting sidesaddle on the crossbar. This was a common mode of travel when I was growing up. Not everyone could afford a bicycle, so you bummed a ride with a friend. I can still feel the pain from the bar when the bike hit a bump. Ouch! It’s probably why so many of us old coots need our hips replaced when we get old.

Sometimes we ferried two passengers; one on the crossbar facing sideways, the second facing forward, his butt perched on the handlebars, his feet resting on the front fender. It was a shaky, jerky ride. The peddler had all he could do to keep the bike upright and in a straight line, not to mention the endurance to move the weight of three kids any significant distance. Visibility wasn’t so hot either, with two squirming bodies swaying back and forth across his line of sight.

The ultimate “ride share” came when a third interloper hopped on the back, straddling the fender, hanging on to the coil springs under the seat, his legs dangling inches from the spokes in the back wheel. This was usually done as a playground stunt, but sometimes it was for real, the only way for four kids to get home on one bike.

I lived on a hill. My heavy, single gear, fat tired bike kept me fit. I could only make it to my house by working my way up the grade in a continuous “S” pattern, peddling back and forth across the street. It was probably quicker to hop off and push it up the hill, but I had an image to uphold. 

Bikes were our whole life back then, our freedom, the keys to the world beyond the block. We were our own mechanics. The bikes were simple. No complicated derailleurs, no brake and shifter cables to mess with. Just a frame, pedals, two wheels, a chain and handlebars. It’s how we learned to use wrenches, change tires, patch tubes and put things back together after taking them apart. We went to bike shops for accessories and parts, but not for repairs. Except when we'd had a wreck and bent the front wheel. We didn’t have the skill (or the patience) to “tune" the wheel, by tightening the spokes in a random pattern until they all had the same tension (and played the same note when they were plucked). At least I didn’t.

So here I am, three score + years after I first hopped on a bike (using the curb to get started), still peddling around town and out of town (and still using the curb). People look, and see an old man moseying along. What they don’t know, it’s really a 12 year old kid (in his mind) enjoying the freedom only a bike ride can bring, the wind blowing through his hair, watching the world pass by at a speed just perfect to enjoy the journey. It ain't so bad, this old coot thing.

March 26, 2014 Article

The Old Coot bides his time.
By Merlin Lessler

Once upon a time (sounds like the start of a fairy tale, but it isn't) people twiddled their thumbs, when they were anxious or bored. Whoops! I just lost every reader born after 1960. Twiddle your thumbs? What is that? It’s this: interlock the fingers of your left hand with the fingers of your right hand and rotate your thumbs so they continuously circle each other. Try it for a minute or so and see if it doesn’t ease your tension, or boredom. Somehow this simple maneuver calms the psyche. It’s as effective as meditation, yoga, square breathing or other mood alternating techniques. And, certainly is better for you than pharmaceuticals.

Back in “the day,” it wasn’t unusual to see an old guy sitting outside a store on a bench twiddling his thumbs, to pass the time in a manner that prevented working himself into an agitated state (back when store owners were smart enough to place a bench outside for shopping challenged husbands). It was a mindless thing, but it helped pass the time.

Whittling was another time killing technique, back when all males over the age of seven carried a jackknife in their pocket. All you needed was a hunk of wood and a place to sit (back to the benches that are missing in today’s society). Try it sometime. Slice off strips of wood with a sharp knife. It’s very settling. Most whittlers just hack away until nothing is left but a pile of shavings, but some find they have a real talent and end up whittling things of artistic merit: ducks, birds, squirrels, people.

Women didn’t whittle or twiddle their thumbs in that sexist era, but they had an even better technique to pass time and stay mellow. Knitting (and crocheting). Which is just a more complicated and productive form of twiddling. Knitters can board a plane and knit their way across the country, serene & calm, enjoying the thrill of flying, while the rest of the passengers fret away their time, unsatisfied with the electronic, mindless time wasters of today’s society. The knitting is put aside upon landing and the knitter exits the plane, fresh and rested. Everyone else deplanes tired, rumpled and tense.

Knitters, whittlers, thumb twiddlers. These are the calm people we need running the world, not the hyped up, extroverts rushing to the podium, turning their heads so their best side is facing the TV camera. Give it a try: twiddle your thumbs and feel the tension evaporate. It’s a free App that came with your original equipment.