An old coot remembers his best Christmas present ever.
By Merlin Lessler
It happened when I was seven, the best Christmas present a
kid (in the fifties) could hope for, was under the tree. A bicycle! My sister,
Madeline, and I both got bikes that year, second-hand, but freshened up with a
new coat of paint. We didn’t care; they sparkled, as did our eyes when we saw
them under the tree. But, into the basement they went, to wait for Spring to
arrive.
Finally, the first robin arrived and the bikes came out.
We lived on a hill; it was steep and a terrible place to learn how to ride. My
father helped me push it up to a flat street at the top of our hill that hardly
had any traffic on it. I still remember the exhilaration of staying upright
while he pushed me. I remember even more vividly, the terror I felt when I
looked over my shoulder and discovered he wasn’t there. I panicked and crashed
to the ground. He eventually convinced me that I’d kept the bike upright all by
myself and didn’t need his help, except to get started. I hopped back on, and
like Hop-a-long Cassidy, my cowboy hero, rode off into the sunset. One problem;
I didn't know how to dismount. When I came to a stop, I simply fell over.
My sister solved the problem. She raced ahead, jumped off
her bike and caught me as I came to a stop. Later on, I just stopped near a
curb and put out my foot so I could climb off. It wasn’t my fault; the bike was
too big, like everything in those days. We had to “grow into” stuff: shoes,
clothes, skates, sleds and yes, bikes. I went around in oversized jeans (we
called them dungarees) with a six inch cuff, shoes with wadded up newspaper
stuffed in the toes and to top it off, I had to use a curb to get on and off my
bike. Now that I’m in my 80’s, I still use a curb when one is available.
I developed a deep relationship with that two-wheeler. I
don't think a cowboy ever loved his horse more than I loved that bike. It was
freedom; it was status; and it taught me how to fix things. I learned to take
it apart and convert it into a racing bike, by removing the fenders, reversing
the handlebars and raising the seat. Sometimes, I decorated it with red, white
and blue crepe paper and rode at the tail end of Memorial Day and Fourth of
July parades. A lot of kids did. We also “clothes pinned” a piece of cardboard
to the fender support so it would flap against the spokes and made it sound
like we were riding a motorcycle. It didn’t take much to entertain a kid back
in the fifties.
When I turned 12, I found a lightweight, English bike,
with hand brakes and three gears under the tree. It was brand-new and the exact
right size. I was ecstatic, but I’ll always think of that used, repainted first
bicycle as the best Christmas present ever. I hope your Christmas was as merry
as mine was back then.
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