When I was around 13 years old, my dad bought my sister a ten-speed bike from the local Sears department store. That was about the time that sis got pregnant, so needless to say, she never got 'round to using it, much. Even after she'd given up the baby, sis started roaming...took up with some truck driver and hitchhiked all over hither and yon. Actually, from the time I was 15 or so, I never saw my sister much, just every now and then...still don't for that matter. Haven't been face-to-face with sis, since New Year's day, 2006.
Me, I never got a ten-speed bike. In fact, after I grew out of my little red bike, around the age of 11 or so, my parents never bought me another. So, it fell to me to appropriate sis's bike from her. She wasn't happy about it--heaven knows why, 'cos she never used it.
God, I loved that bike. It was white, had the old inward curving handle bars, with the front and rear hand brakes and gear changer on them....it was a boy's bike--why, dad bought her a boy's bike, I've no idea, unless he'd gotten a good deal on it...which is actually probably more likely, than not. Thing is, being a boy's bike, it had that bar over the top..and, it was too tall for me, so much so, that anytime I stopped the bike, I had to physically lean to one side, so my foot could touch the ground.
In the summer of 1975--the year I FINALLY left my common school--ten years after mum first trundled me off on the kindergarten bus--I'd graduated from 8th grade in June, a class of 43 students, the biggest ever for that school...and was going to be starting high school, some 17 miles from home, with a in-coming freshman class size of...500+. I was going from my village school of some 300 or so students, to a big high school in another town, with around 3000 students...I was excited and nervous that summer, and jubilant to be finally free of the familar--and often dreaded...and going off to a new beginning, my first real adventure.
I don't remember a lot about the summer of 1975. I remember riding up to the lake and hanging out at the beach, going fishing and rowing. I remember going to the bowling alley, and going with my dad when he went on sales calls out in the country. I remember listening to the radio constantly--besides my love of top 40 hits, I'd recently discovered John Denver--who was at the height of his popularity at that time. I remember mum giving me a pair of Bushnell binoculars and somewhere I got a "Guide to North American Wildlife"--which became my bible for birdwatching for nearly 30 years (sadly, this book mysteriously vanished during my move here--I was crushed by its loss). So began my lifelong love affair with nature, that summer. And, I remember watching a lot of old Wild, Wild West re-runs on television..not sure why.
But, above all else, I remember riding that ten-speed bike...every single day. Up and down our street, into the woods, over the fields, into the village...everywhere. That bike was my magic carpet, my trusty steed, my cockpit. I daresay, if I'd known about Dr Who back then, I might even add that it was my Tardis.
At least some of you have seen the things people can do with mountain bikes...well, long before there was any such thing as a mountain bike, I was doing those things on my slim ten-speed. I was barreling up and down hills, over rutted paths, in the forest and fields. I thought I could go anywhere, do anything on that bike. I thought I could fly. I was like a god--but...later that summer, I'd prove myself to be more like a ten-speed Icarius.
After watching an episode of Wild, Wild West, and before dinner time, I would go ride "my" bike up and down the street. And, sure enough, the show was over, I coasted down the drive--our drive was slightly uphill--and into the street...only, something was wrong. I distinctly remember my shock, when I saw my right handbrake come loose, and swing into the spokes of my bike. I distinctly remember thinking hard that I'd be OK if I could just drive onto the neighbour's lawn, that was across the street from our house. That was the last thing I remember, until I woke up on my back, with a mouthful of blood.
Dazed, confused, I was scared half out of my wits...most especially when I came to enough, to realize that my bike was way across the street--I mean, I really DID do an Icarius...from where the bike ended up, to where I ended up, diagonally across the road, nearly 30 feet away!
A neighour lady had come rushing over. She ordered me to lay still, gave me a damp flannel to put against my bleeding lip--reassuring me that it was just my lip that was bleeding. She'd already rung up the local volunteer ambuance EMT's, and then she'd run over two doors down to our house, to tell dad--mum was working at the library that night.
Now, how I'd ended up on my back, when I'd clearly landed on my face, to this day is a bit of a puzzler to me. I reckon I was dazed and must have rolled over, before I'd completely regained my senses.
Anyway, dad comes rushing over, and stands there wittering to the neighbour lady...god forbid he should come and sit by me, right? But, that was the way my dad was, I'm afraid.
Well, asking dad to handle an emergency, is like asking someone who's terrified of spiders, to walk into a nest of black widows. In other words, dad wasn't famous for being cool in a crisis. Even as I lay on a stretcher in the hallway of Albany Medical Center's ER, I asked dad (well, as well as i was able to ask him, with my upper left lip sliced open) if he'd called mum and told her I was going to be alright (at that point they'd already X-ray'd me, and determined my skull wasn't damaged...no bike helmets back then). But, dad just dithered with the neighbour lady, who was one of the ambulance volunteers, and she'd come along later in her car, to give dad and me a ride home...I finally had to ask HER to ring up my mum...who I knew would be worried about me.
Got seven stitches in my lip--no anastetic so yes, it hurt. And, three in my eyebrow near--with anestetic, a chipped tooth and a big lump near my left temple with a possible mild concussion. What did dad do, the day after I got my stitches? Took us out for pizza--my favourite food on the planet, even back then. Do you KNOW how hard it is to eat pizza (or much of anything that isn't liquid), with you upper left lip in stitches? Oh well, dad's heart was in the right place, even if he's brain wasn't.
The bike was taken into the garage, where it sat until dad finally took it to the dump. It was a total loss--the front wheel was wrenched so badly, that it bent the front frame--well, I really was tearing along when I crashed. Sis wasn't worried about me though. When she'd found out about the accident, all she said was, "it my bike alright?" Even to this day, sis is STILL mad about the bike...I kid you not, she mentioned it to me last time I saw her...sis does hold a grudge, let me tell you.
I didn't get another bike for another 20 years. In 1995, I bought an old 1950's one-speed girl's bike...and about 1 year later, had another accident as I was riding over a rail crossing.
Third time's the charm though...dad bought me a mountain bike as a Christmas gift in 2002. I spent the summer riding it from my caravan in the trailer park, the mile up the road to the town beach on Lake Luzerne, and into town to the library and grocery store, and down to nearby Forth Lake, to the general store there. I later had to sell the bike though, when it developed a problem and I couldn't afford to fix it, cos' my car broke down as well. I miss it, though. This ten speed Icarius still longs to fly.
