These days, and even back then, most kids got started with the three wheeled versions. The first were called tricycles, but by the time my kids came along, Big Wheel seemed to have the market. They graduated at various young ages to 4 wheels, better known as a bike with training wheels, then gained their independence from the training wheels. Often around age six or so.
I don't know when my brother got his bicycle. I just know that by age 12 I had no bike and didn't know how to ride one. The family was visiting Aunt Agnes in Minneapolis for some summer event. I can't recall why, just that it wasn't our usual Christmas visit, driving south 200 miles to see all the cousins, aunts and uncles that we could, on both parents' sides. This certainly wasn't that, because everything was green, sidewalks were bare, and I finally learned how to ride a bike.
I was bored, went outside, and found some neighborhood kids to play with. Or maybe they found me. I was restricted from wandering. They had bikes. I didn't. They were astounded to learn I didn't know how to ride one.
But it's so easy!
Really? Looked scary to me.
They tried to show me, and I finally gave in and got up on the seat. My feet were still tip-toed on the sidewalk, my legs being just that long. I tried to push on a pedal and the bike fell over. Repeat, same results. This bike had no training wheels, these younger kids being skilled riders, but they decided to become my training wheels. With a proper start, and encouragement to keep pedaling, I made it about 25 feet.
It felt great! Scary too. They encouraged me to go again, but I was nearly out of block to go down. That's when they suggested what was to them the obvious, that I could turn the corner, keep going, and get all the way around the block and return to them with the bike.
Well, I knew I wasn't allowed to cross the street, but surely nobody had said I couldn't go around the block without crossing any streets. Right? So off I started, half petrified all the way. Corners were scary, almost making me fall, but somehow I didn't. Each upcoming corner was still just as scary even though each time I'd had another one successfully navigated. Some of the sidewalk blocks were missing, cracked with holes, or tilted leaving a bump either up or down to the next one. I navigated them all without incident, terrified to stop for anything because I knew I'd never get going again without somebody to hold the bike for me to start.
I was lucky there were no pedestrians out walking during those few minutes. Not on this block at least. Finally arriving back, both relieved and reluctant to hand the bike back to these new friends, exhilarated and proud at my accomplishment, I knew I needed my very own bike. Right now!
I'm pretty sure I returned to the house in just a tiny bit of trouble, though I don't recall the details. Most likely it was my failure to understand that not crossing the street also included not going out of eyesight. That kind of thing was parental logic as I grew up. I was supposed to know ahead of time what I wasn't allowed to do. But I wanted a bike and stood my ground, reminding them I was completely unhurt. And besides, my brother had one, didn't he? He didn't have to stay within eyesight in our small town up north.
If you think I was persuasive, you'd be wrong. He was a boy. I wasn't. As if that settled anything in my mind. My best friend across the street, Charlene, had her own bike already for a while, her younger (male) cousins had their own bikes, and just about every other kid I knew had one. Once I told Charlene what was going on, she offered to let me ride her bike. It didn't have training wheels either, but she helped me start it. Without sidewalks, the only place to ride was the street, but there was almost no traffic ever, all the other kids rode there, and frankly, I didn't bother my working parents by asking permission. One only bothered them at work for emergencies, and things like getting picked on by one's older brother I very early found out DID NOT MAKE AN EMERGENCY!
So off I went on Charlene's bike. I went from her corner about two blocks, turned around carefully, and started back, no problems. Neither of us counted on her cousins. They were pretty mischievous, but mostly in trouble with their own parents for incidents between each other. I clearly recall once when Charlene's dad was butchering one of his many snapping turtles in the back yard (as good Catholics, there were meatless Fridays and turtles weren't officially "meat") and watching him butcher one became frequent neighborhood entertainment for us kids. One of the boys picked up the severed turtle head by poking a stick in its mouth. Being dead didn't mean the turtle heart couldn't beat in a bowl of water for another day, or the jaw muscles couldn't clamp tightly on a stick. Or the kid's finger, as it turned out. The whole neighborhood heard him when the head he'd tossed straight up in the air by the stick in its mouth managed to land exactly on one of his fingers and he ran screaming home.
I was given reason to remember that fondly. As I was returning to Charlene with her bike, the boys ran out into the street, thinking it would be fun to watch this novice cyclist once they stuck a couple sticks in the front spokes of the bike. I went head over handlebars, scraped my knees and elbows, and hit something just under my mouth that went through my lower lip and into my jaw just under my teeth. The bike needed repairs of course, but that was settled between Charlene's dad and her uncle. The boys were soundly punished, and I was absolved of responsibility by both families.
But not by my own! When I arrived home bleeding, there was hell to pay. By then I knew to expect it, regardless of the cause of whatever disaster I was involved in. My parents backed off a bit when the neighbors came to apologize for my injuries. It still didn't do anything along the lines of getting me my own bike.
A year or two later I wasn't letting up on my demand for a bicycle. The answer was still no. I'd begun to observe, however, that my brother wasn't riding his any more. He had a couple of friends who drove everywhere they wanted to go, or at least that was my younger sister's perspective. I figured maybe my parent's objection was financial, so I came up with a plan.
I carefully pointed out how my brother no longer had a need for his bicycle and hadn't been riding it for ages. I promised to take good care of it. Steve tried to argue it was his bike, but amazingly, I won the discussion with my parents. I had a bike! It was a boy's bike with the high center bar across. There were balloon tires, making it capable of going practically anywhere. My favorite part was the fact that the brakes were engaged not by weak fingers, but by pedaling in reverse with my strongest muscles. It had a single gear, which meant my speed was controlled by my legs, and it coasted beautifully just by backing off the pressure on the chain. In practically no time I was riding hands free, using balance shifting to steer. Suddenly I had a level of freedom and a means of exercise like never before.
I managed to ignore the fact I also had won myself an angry brother.
I could ride to school, and did so as often as possible, weather permitting, and despite dress codes mandating girls wear skirts to school. I didn't snag my hems in the chain or embarrass myself with my skirt up on the bar. That was easy to figure out. There was one mishap however, that I believe I successfully hid from my parents.
I had to go home over lunch break. I left important homework behind that morning, if I recall correctly. With a very short lunch hour I was in a hurry and let that rule my choices. I was on the sidewalk, just hitting the downtown area, and had an alley to cross. There was a building flush with the alley and the sidewalk on the side I approached from, blocking my view. I reached it at full speed at the same time a pickup truck pulled out, and crashed into the front door of it. The driver was terrified, particularly when he saw the tiny bit of a scraped knee I had. His aim was to get this poor kid some medical attention, or clear himself from responsibility, or everything else one does when vehicle meets bicycle.
For my part, I needed to get back to school. I was still in a hurry, still fully functional, my bike unfazed for practical purposes, and all too aware of this being my own fault. I brushed aside the driver's worries, ignored any need to retain me, absolved him of all harm, and dashed off on my bike. No way was I giving him my name, as for sure it would get back to my parents. I got back to school successfully, cleaned myself up, and pretended nothing had happened. Once home I was totally ignorant of any possible reason for a little scrape on my knee. There may even have been a tiny tear in my red and black striped dress I had no knowledge of once questioned some days later.
In '64 the family moved to St. Paul. The bike came with us. I have wonderful memories of riding south to nearly the end of Snelling Avenue, steering hands free down the street between parked cars and impatient traffic which never managed to hit me by some miracle. My cycling memories end when my parents found out just what my favorite route was and put a quick stop to it. I would have loved a good bike in later years but there were never any like it around by then. Brakes migrated to the handlebars, gears were added, tires became thin, and seats were impossible to find a comfortable place to sit on for more than 15 minutes. No matter what I tried, nothing compared to all my memories.
By the way, I can still see and feel that scar under my lip, both from inside and out.
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