The Old Coot was in a fix.
By Merlin Lessler
Do you remember being a kid, peddling along on a bike,
minding your own business and your pant leg gets caught in the chain? You
couldn’t peddle forward; you couldn’t pedal backwards. The chain was locked in
place. Bikes back then had coaster brakes that engaged when you pushed the peddle
backwards; most bikes today have hand brakes (except for some cruiser and city
bikes). All you could do when your pant leg got caught in the chain was keep
going forward, knowing you were going to tip over and skin your knee or elbow
when you came to a stop.
My worst “pants-caught-in-a-bike-chain” experience took place
when I was ten-years old and coming down a steep hill on Denton Road, headed
for a busy Vestal Ave at the bottom. I had one chance to save myself; I had to turn
off onto a cinder construction road that jutted to the side, one block from the
bottom. I knew I would fall when I made the turn, and most certainly would get
banged up, but it was my only hope! Faster and faster, I sped down the hill,
flying by the Daley’s house, then the Almy’s house and finally past my friend
Woody’s house, who was gawking at me as I flew by. I steered toward the
construction road and closed my eyes. That’s all I remember. Then, a neighborhood
woman yelled out her kitchen window, asking me if I was OK. I looked down at
the blood and cinder mosaic on the side of my leg, the skinned elbow on my arm
and my torn pant leg, now free of the chain. “I’m OK!” I shouted, got to my
feet, picked up my bike, straightened the handlebars and peddled home. It was
my third session that week with a bottle of Merthiolate. I can still feel the
sting.
Now, I find myself back on a bicycle, rolling down a hill,
out of control with my pant leg caught in the chain. Except, this time the
bicycle is metaphysical and the hill is life, rapidly spinning by. That’s what
it feels like to be old, any kind of old: 30-old, 40-old, 50, 60, 70 or 80-old
like me. No matter what part of the age hill you are coming down, the scenery
is flying by way too fast. And, worse yet, there is no side street to pull off
into.
So, what’s my point? I don’t know. Someone asked me the
other day if I remembered getting my pants caught in a bicycle chain when I was
a kid. And, like a typical old coot, I turned it into a philosophical treatise
on the meaning of life. How’s your bike ride going? Is your pant leg inching
closer to the chain?
Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com or visit blog -www.oldcootwisdomblogspot.com
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