I got a new bike for my 59th birthday. I was more excited than your average adult, or to be honest, even your average kid. I picked a light blue one with black and white flowers on the fenders and, of course, a basket on the back. I got the required reflector lights, but for the safety of all mankind, nothing else that would allow me to be on the road at night. You see, I have something of a checkered history with bike riding.
I always will remember my first bike. In my family, you didn’t get your own until you were 9. That didn’t mean you couldn’t ride a bike; it just meant that you had gone through everyone else’s hand-me-downs and finally outgrew the last one. Now, getting a bike in January is not as exciting as getting one in June, but it’s still fun. I can remember pedaling my red Schwinn around the street in my pajamas before going to school. Our street had a large island of grass in the center, perfect for waffle ball or baseball, but also perfect for riding around.
As the youngest child, I think I annoyed my older siblings a fair amount, so I often found myself playing make-believe. One day, I wondered if someone could ride a bike if they were blind. So I decided to close my eyes while riding around the circle island. I made it about one-third of the way and promptly crashed into a parked car. It made an awful noise. Please note: No one from my house even looked out the window to see what happened, but the car’s owner came running out to make sure the bloody mess of a child was not permanently damaged. Of course, I didn’t tell him I was riding with my eyes closed. I just let him I assume I was a clumsy kid. I went home, cleaned up, covered up the evidence and no one seemed to noticed as I picked pebbles out of my elbow at dinner.
The next bike I got was in seventh grade. It was an orange 10-speed with brakes in the back and front. I never really understood how the gears worked, so I always seemed to be in the same gear no matter how many times my friends screamed at me to switch so I could catch up. It wasn’t a great bike because the back brakes stopped working fairly quickly. I asked my dad to fix it. He was the best guy in the world, quite seriously, but if it couldn’t be fixed with duct tape or a piece of chewed gum, you were pretty much out of luck. Let me just say that flying over the handlebars when you stop is a great way to announce your arrival.
Then the Lord of the Bikes decided to be kind to me since I had a child with me the next time I rode a bike. The Katy Trail was our favorite place to go. I loved the feeling of kids’ little hands shoved down my pants or up my shirt, not caring for once in my life if anyone saw my muffin top.
So now, I have a new bike. The first day I took it out, I almost lost my balance on a sandy, windy trail. But instead of pushing through it (my usual way of operating), I got off, walked my bike a few feet, hopped back on, and off I went. I’ve finally figured out how to ride.
