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.
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