First Bike

Riding along the streets of Austin today, and for some strange reason, my thoughts drifted in the direction of my very first 2 wheeled bike. Bikes have come and gone, but none holds such a prominent place in my memories than my first real bike.

I rode that first bike around around my neighborhood and the town where we lived. I didn't go to fast, and I didn't go too far. That was a lot of years ago. There was a pretty long stretch where bike riding wasn't part of my regimen. I did get back to cycling, and since then, I've logged many miles in the US and in Europe. I've ridden alone and with more that ten thousand.  At times, I've achieved 500 miles in a week, but none of those memories rise above those of my first bike.

Moving from a row house in Philadelphia to the suburbs in a 1950's summer was somewhat traumatic; I thought it was pretty far out in the country. At night, I was serenaded by the sound of crickets. To be honest on those first nights it wasn't a serenade; it was a crescendo of screams emanating from some horror film. Summer in the city meant open windows and the sound of trolley cars running on steel rails. I had become oblivious to the sounds of a trolley; it was always there running past the front of our house. The new house was one that that my father built on a vast 2 acre lot. It seemed to be an incredible estate.  A gravel driveway led to the sparsely traveled road in front of our house. We seemed to be far from everything.

There were 2 boys about my age living within a quarter mile of our house. They had bikes, and they could ride them as gracefully as a bird could fly. They had amazing technique. Their control was dazzling; they could even make a U-turn on our 2 lane street without falling or touching a foot to the stone and tar surface. I'm not sure if I was in envy of their bikes or their phenomenal skill. I'm sure it was a little of both.

A month or more passed and school commenced. It was a new school for my sister, 2 years my junior, and me. We were the new kids. The end of September arrived, and it was time to celebrate my sister's birthday. My uncle's 1956 DeSoto Fireflight wheeled into our driveway with my grandmother and grandfather in the back seat. Something very large and in an odd shaped box extended from the trunk. Unbelievable as it seemed to me, the box contained an AMF, 24 inch, blue, two wheeled, girl's bike. How could this be happening? She was younger than me, and she had a bike. I didn't.

When allowed by my sister, I attempted to ride her bike. The lack of a high cross bar permitted easy straddling. My attempts to master the two wheeler soon had me moving from the gravel driveway to the softer lawn. This took some of the sting out of the numerous falls that I endured.  After what seemed like thousands of attempts, I was able to steer the bike in a very erratic manner on the lawn or on the driveway. My sister made similar progress, and I was soon without a share of her blue bike. 

October turned into November and it was time for my birthday. Almost on cue, the Fireflight moved down our driveway and I saw a now familiar shaped box extending from the trunk. My grandparents had come through for me. On reflection, I'd say they always delivered the greatest gifts. This time, the box protruding from the trunk contained an AMF Roadmaster, 26 inch, two wheeled bike.

It was an amazing vehicle. It was red; back when I was a kid, almost everyone knew that red could go pretty fast. The chrome fenders were blinding. White wall tires, a red and white seat, and a chrome headlight rounded out the list of accessories. What a beauty!

I soon found that I was too short to straddle the bike's cross bar  while standing on terra firma. This problem never occurred when riding a smaller, girl's bike. Of course, that had no crossbar. Wow, this was a problem. How could I ride my new bike without a fear of experiencing unbearable pain? My elation at having the new bike was now on the verge of deflation.  One of my neighbors offered a plausible suggestion, "Get the bike moving and use one of the pedals like a step to mount the bike." This seemed like a good idea until I attempted to put it into action. After a number of falls, I was about to give up and await some kind of growth spurt. My neighbor, who was shorter than me, took the bike and demonstrated the proper mounting of a too tall bike. He placed one foot on the left pedal and pushed forward. This got the bike moving. Then, with tremendous dexterity, he swung the other leg over the rear of the bike landing precisely on the opposite pedal. He was riding my bike down the road in front of our house. This gave me new hope, and after more failed attempts to mount the bike, I finally achieved some clumsy success. I was finally riding the bike with both feet on the pedals. 

It took a while to master riding without the fear of crippling pain resulting from contact with the crossbar, but it was accomplished. Those are the memories that I have of my first bicycle. I am reminded of that time every time I see a child's first attempts at riding a bicycle.