LoveUbecause … you were my first real bicycle!

Bygone Biking Times … 

It is not that uncommon for me to come across seriously minded cyclists while driving the back roads out here in the country. They travel singularly, in pairs and less often in large packs. I am more than a little awe-struck by the gleaming, silver bicycle frames, perhaps drawn from some complex alloy of metals once reserved for the space program. There are a seemingly, infinite number of different coloured, aerodynamically, streamlined shapes for helmets - the sometimes bug-like impression, enhanced by intense silver, black or gold reflective eyewear. Variations of cleated shoes, the similar next-of-kin once only seen on the football field, are in abundance. Spandex and Lycra stretched perilously tight over bulging thighs and buttocks, sometimes due to too much exercise and alas, sometimes due to not enough.  The number of gears, sprockets, well lubricated chains and possible permutations and combinations of this complex equipment - I couldn’t even hazard a guess! Arguably this is just an impression, not a judgment, but the thing is, as an onlooker, a non-enthusiast, I just can’t help but think these futuristic road warriors look a little out of sync with the natural surroundings. More importantly, for the most part, the impression is one of being a bit driven.  I am not actually convinced that they are enjoying the journey. It is the destination that counts and just how fast one can arrive. I just can’t help but think back to simpler times when cycling was just that - simple.

I remember as a young boy straddling my bright orange Super Cycle and pedaling about the neighbourhood on hot summer’s days.  I liked to think of myself as a bit of a maverick as other children scooted here and there on more traditional coloured bikes - generally red, racing green or perhaps even midnight blue. But it was a time before there was much disposable this and disposable that – it was a time when there was less of a need for Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, because in great measure many people did it anyway – they could not afford to do otherwise. So, in tune with the times, I purchased secondhand, what I considered my “metal steed”, on which I would ultimately endlessly charge about the neighbourhood, from a friend of my best friend’s brother.

I paid the handsome sum of ten dollars which had been painstakingly accumulated from allowances, birthday and Christmas gifts. To me, the freedom was well worth every hard earned penny. I went to view the bike, which originally was fire engine red and leant rather forlornly with a punctured tire against the wall of the seller’s dimly lit, front porch. It didn’t look like much, but it was affordable and I had imagination – a new version would definitely cost three, four or more times the amount. I was assured it was in good working condition and that the tire would be repaired. I excitedly made the deal on the spot.

The repair was delayed a few days due to an emergency in the seller’s family, so with heightened anticipation I arrived to pick up the bicycle.

I remember, quite cautiously making the journey, only a few blocks, home. I dutifully stopped at every stop sign, hand signaled every turn, whether there were other vehicles there to see me or not – a habit which for the most part I still maintain. But it was the travel between those stops and turns that quickly changed into sheer joy. The wind blowing through my hair, the warmth of the sun on my face, my pale, spindly, little legs strengthening as having only one gear – “go” –  they were challenged by hills, the ups and downs to the shopping centre, the long trips I made with my best friend clear across the city and back.

We explored back streets, bought candy at newly discovered corner stores, ventured upon and intimately became familiar with the twisting trails of a huge city bush lot that was known only to the local boys as “the swamp”. Daredevils - we mastered “sweet jumps” that would have put Napoleon Dynamite to shame and escaped “swamp bullies” who sometimes ferociously chased us when we unsuspectingly encroached on “their” territory. It was never about the destination - always the journey – the adventure.

They were carefree spring, summer and fall days when video games, DVDs, personal computers, Lycra, helmets and deraillers either hadn’t been invented, or were still unfamiliar to most. We were the knights of our neighbourhood, madly pedaling by the lurking dragons – loose dogs that roamed menacingly about, sometimes in small packs, waiting to chase a boy on his bike. We dismantled, lubricated, patched and repaired and when the failing red paint became too unsightly, I boldly spray painted my frame bright orange!

It all went on for several years. But as is the nature of childhood, time and life, things changed. Coming home from school one day, I discovered a visiting aunt and uncle had left me a bulging envelop generously stuffed with cash for a new bicycle. A brand new, metallic, blue, ten speed racer was purchased.  My orange road companion was eventually left to deteriorate and rust at the side of the garage, but the spirit was never lost. So still today – yes, I wear a helmet – but it is the feel of the wind and sun on my face that makes my ride – the smell of cut grass, fields of daisies and the occasional fox peering cautiously from the forest. The Spandex – sorry, I shall have to leave that to the road warriors!
Anticipating the coming spring and summer seasons …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in Cycling, Sports, Uncategorized
Tags: bicycle, bike, childhood, stories, youth