Tag Archive: bicycles


Big Red


Big Red

It stood before me in the dank basement storeroom, its chromed edges glittering in bare bulb’s dim yellow light.  It was huge – an American Schwinn bicycle – fire engine red with a thick padded seat.  I stared at it, my heart pounding with excitement.  To me, a twelve year old boy trapped on an Army base in Germany, it represented freedom.

It was Christmas and my first bike – ever.  We’d had a bike before in the old neighborhood, but it was my brother’s more than mine.  It had been cobbled together from parts of old bikes us kids had found.  We were the only kids in the neighborhood without a bike and it had taken a long time to gather the required parts.  It had been my brother’s pride for awhile until a year or two later when I learned to ride the thing.  I still have a scar from trying once when I had decided to try to ride it before I knew how.

But this one was MINE!  All mine.  I stood, admiring the thing.

I looked the bike over.  It was larger and heavier framed than the German bikes I was used to seeing.  Its frame spoke of American strength and steel, and its handlebars were curved boldly back – unlike the many of the German bikes which had just straight bars, and ended in thick black grips, ones that would have saved me once upon a time.

It was equipped like all German bikes – a reflector, rear light, head light, generator, and bell.  It was required by law.   It also had a basket, which, while not required, was handy since bikes were more or less the universal method of transportation – both on base and off base, by Germans, boys, and grownups alike.

Everyone used a bike or had one.  I already had been here a year.  Unlike my brother I was dependent upon the Army shuttle buses – converted Bluebirds painted green – to get around.  It seemed we were always on the little satellite bases surround some main base where you would find the commissary, PX and public goods.  We lived for a while on Old Argonner, then after a few months moved to “New Argonner”, which was virtually identical to the old except it had the school there – before moving to Fleigerhorst, which was some distance away.   I’d had to walk home from time to time) from the school, doing the forbidden hitchhiking thing only once – a good five miles.  This was while we were in the Hanau area.

I looked at the bike.  I pushed it a bit.  There was no way I could get this big thing up the stairs were my parents were.  We had received our swords upstairs on the third floor – me a big old broad sword made in Toledo, Spain – famous for its steel – and my brother a  rapier with a cupped hand guard – which I learned to my dismay was much faster and easier to lunge with.  I still have those swords – the broad sword, its guards broken; the rapier with huge creases in its black hand bell.  Both the blades are heavily nicked, but the ends are still sharp enough to run you through.   Then my parents had sent me down to the basement to our storage room – always empty – with the vague excuse about getting some boxes.

Unable to get the bike out and being a little kid – and a little boy – I did what came most naturally.

I took the bike apart.

I took it down to the last bearing and wheel.  Then I put it back together, lubing the parts and studying how it worked.  A few round bearings were all that were left over.  While a bit stiffer in the pedals, it still rode proud and tall among the lithe German bikes.  Its padded seat was comfortable compared to some of the lean machines I had seen – not racing bikes, mind you, just ‘normal’ bikes the Germans used.  And boy, did the Germans ever use them!

That’s one of the things I loved over there: the transportation system was built with bicycles in mind.  There were racks and lanes, paths made for them.  Everyone respected them, and everyone rode them, from the big old fat German ladies (some who would look ridiculously funny, their buns hanging down along the sides, dwarfing the bicycle under them) – to the boys who would come rocketing by.  Everyone was polite.  You were expected to obey the rules of the road, and ring the bell (a thumb operated affair) whenever you came up behind someone to give them warning.  At dusk you’d throw the little lever on the generator, engaging its rough splined wheel against the tire’s sidewall so the light would come on.  The faster you went, the brighter the light would shine – slow down, and it would dim.  Stop and it would die entirely.

And then five or six months later someone stole Big Red, as I had taken to calling the thing.

It happened at a German pool we used to go to near a lake where the tanks would swim (and we would skate on thin ice some of the time).   I know we were still living on Old Argonner (this was before I moved – again) because the pool and lake were near there.  As soon as the weather permitted – usually June – the Germans would open the swimming poo.  It cost fifty phennings to get in – you parked your bike in the long racks, locked it up, paid your dues, went through the turnstile and went in.

When I came out one day – it was still early in the season – my bike was gone.  I circled the racks several times, but there was no denying the sheered cable on the ground.  I was dismayed, mad somewhat, and I glumly walked home, wondering how I would explain to my parents.  You took care of your stuff or it was gone.  I had taken care of my bike – and yet it was gone.  I knew I wouldn’t be getting another one; not from them.  But while I was walking – it was a long walk ‘home’ – I made up my mind.  I would get another one.  Somehow, some way.

I didn’t get into trouble – my parents were stern – but to them (and us, now) it was fairly apparent that some German had been envious of Big Red – so unlike the German machines, it screamed “American!” whenever one looked at it.  It stood above the other bikes – quite literally! – and since I took such good care of it, it had been practically new.

We moved.  I worked hard.  It took a lot of saving at twenty-cents a job, but I finally was able to afford a used one – eighteen dollars from some G.I. rotating home.  It was a German brand.  It rode easily but had the straight bar handles I didn’t like, and was worn out.  Even the paint was worn – a sheer gray.  But the wear made it pedal easily and it coasted well.  The bearings where all but rattling in its hubs, and the steering was a tad loose – something I fixed with my previous experience from disassembling Big Red the first time.  It was all I could afford between my allowance and the work I did.  It takes a long time to save when you work for low wages (or none),  plus I had my own expenses: snacks from the roach coach, models from the PX – tanks and planes – and the Testor’s paint, glue, and brushes needed to assemble them.  And sometimes I had to take German buses – because I’d lost my bike!  It took months, weeks to find – but when I finally got it – I breathed a sigh of freedom.  With my bike I could truly wander and roam, get into things.  I could join my ‘friends’ (casual classroom or playground acquaintances, changing like the wind) – on long rides through the woods, or along German roads.  It was so ratty nobody wanted it – and once again, I owned the poorest bike in the neighborhood.  Not that it bothered me any.  I was just glad to have a bike to ride.

There’s a lesson in that, I suppose – one that I learned early on.  Something about being content with what you’ve got – it’s working – and not needing the latest nor flashiest thing.  About being happy with what you’ve got in live . . . and not wanting much more than you need to survive.

It can make you happy some of the time.

I know I was – despite my crappy bike and all.  Happy some of the time.

Road Trip


Road Trip

When I was about eight or so, my mom finally decided I should learn to ride a bicycle – probably to avoid another “Scarred For Life” incident. I guess she knew my stubbornly independent streak would lead me to do something equally stupid sooner or later, and she figured it was better to force the bud to bloom rather than trying to nip it anymore. After all: I was determined to ride one of those two-wheel contraptions, and my determination showed, because she had me up and going in a single afternoon.

I remember her pushing me down the dirt driveway again and again, holding onto the seat and then letting go, yelling, “Pedal, Mike, pedal!”. And off I’d go a few yards or so, wobbling like a topsy turnip, only to crash on my side. The pain didn’t bother me one bit; I was a sturdy kid, plus my stubbornness kept me at it. I think she was as determined as I was, if for no other reason than she could see I was determined. She wouldn’t quit until I did, and I didn’t know how to “quit”. It simply wasn’t in my vocabulary.

Eventually I got the hang of that rickety old thing – for it was old, and it was my brother’s. Rattling chain, chipped red and white paint, no hand guards or streamers, rusty spokes – it didn’t matter to me. I was proud as could be as I finally mastered the art of pedaling down the driveway, slowing into a wide, wide turn across the lumpy yard with its patches of grass and sand, coming back to the carport – and wobbling back around, doing it again.

The very next day I concluded I had this machine mastered. I remember going into the house and telling my mom, “I’m going to ride my bike.” (Conveniently ignoring the fact that it was my brother’s.) Mom, busy with something or other in the kitchen, her back to me, simply nodded and muttered something that I took as “okay”, and I skedaddled my butt outta there. After all, we weren’t supposed to be in the house during the day, not unless you were bleeding to death or dying – or wanted to end up that way.

So off I go – pushing the bicycle off the carport, unsteadily mounting the thing, and down the driveway I went. The sandy ditch lay ahead; no problem, just pedal harder. I managed to get through the soft wide dip, took a left, and headed down the hill, ready to start my long adventure, free at last on two wheels, albeit under leg power.

I went to the corner – the sand road, a huge horseshoe, had two bends: one at the top of the hill (far too hard for me to pedal) – and one at the bottom, both ends leading to a paved country road miles away (or at least miles in my young mind. In actuality, they were each only about a half mile or so.) For me the paved road was an impossible distance away, and I anticipated a nice long ride.

Now along this leg of the horseshoe bend the ditches got deeper – no longer the shallow dips lining the road in the neighborhood, these dropped off two or three feet deep, dug into the red clay and filled with soft sand, lined on the back with weeds, and the front with the gravel strewn edge of the road. The road seemed much narrower here without those broad shoulders. On one side – to my left – was Farmer Brown’s forbidden field surrounded by two strands of rusted barbed wire, with it’s infamous haunted house hidden in a cove of trees. On the other side of the road – to my right – was Farmer Brown’s place – another forbidden zone, a few more small fields (not his), then the chicken farmer and his wife’s place – a gray plank structure surrounded by ramshackle chicken coops and rambling gardens. Here and there was the occasional driveway leading to an old house or two, almost hidden by the towering weeds. Rusting mailboxes, leaning this way and that, dotted the roadside like country drunks trying to find their way home.

Now I was fine with this bicycle, but there was one small problem. I hadn’t figured out how to put on the brakes. Mastering the art of ‘pedaling backwards’ just seemed beyond my ability, but I didn’t let that trouble me. I had come up with an inelegant solution, but one that worked.

Whenever I felt the need to stop, I’d simply hurl myself off the bike, pushing it one way while I went another, and we’d both go crashing along the sides the road. Every time a car would come, I would throw myself off the seat, landing on my side, and rolling pell-mell through the dust while the bicycle crashed on the other side. Getting back up and dusting myself off, I would wait until the car had passed, then quite calmly go and rescue my bike from the bushes or ditch or wherever it had landed, get back on it, and continue my journey into the unknown. As I disappeared down that long country road, the ditches got deeper, the falls got harder – and Lord only knows what the drivers thought, seeing this little kid go flying from his bike to disappear into a ditch, the bicycle wobbling on alone and with no pilot. The poor bike – and several mailboxes – suffered the consequences – but for me it was the height of adventure, and I didn’t care.

My mom finally caught up with me a few hours later as I, battered, dirty, dusty and bruised, came back to that bend in the corner. I barely remember the scolding, her making me push the bike back up the hill to the house, for my mind was full of adventure – the gravel road under the summer sun, the scent of dust in my nose and wind in my hair. I had almost made the paved highway before I’d turned around, and I was exceedingly proud of myself. We arrived at the house, where she got the garden hose and washed me down (typical pre-house entry behavior) – and I could feel the scabs on my knees and elbows burning under that cold water – but I was all beams and smiles. I had made it. I had had a grand adventure, all by myself. I felt like I was finally a free man – or at least a child with an open road before him. My soul had grown wings, or at least it felt like they were sprouting.

My mom likes to tell the tale of how she tracked me – going down the road, asking neighbors. And one would say, “Yeah, I saw a kid. He wrecked my mailbox, went rolling in the ditch.” Or “Yeah, that crazy kid of yours! Almost ran him over! Came flying down the road – he went one way, the bike went the other – I thought he was trying to kill himself!” Apparently you could track my route by the path of destruction (and bewildered grownups) I left in my wake.

She started the lessons the very next day. Only now, instead of “how to go”, they were “how to stop”. That I’ve found is an equally important (and symbolic) skill in life.

Otherwise, you just might find yourself crashing in the ditch with a face full of weeds and a handful of dust.