A few weeks back, I found myself with some unforeseen, but welcomed Saturday afternoon free time. I seized the opportunity to grab my golf clubs and head out to the field behind our house, to fine-tune my golf game. After about twenty minutes of launching divots, or in layman’s terms; huge chunks of sod, and inventing some exciting, new curse words, my neighbor John came out to join me. I fully expected him to greet me with a judo-chop to the Adam’s apple but his pleasant demeanor indicated he hadn’t discovered the ball of mud I dropped in his pool, courtesy of an errant 5-iron. We exchanged pleasantries, talked some golf and before he left me to continue strip-mining the meadows of our town with my clubs, he offered a suggestion.
“You should write about the village's new bike path.” I thanked him for the idea, as I always welcome thoughts from readers, and started thinking of an angle for a column. I wasn’t all that familiar with the bike path and it was this lack of knowledge, which resurrected some past wisdom from my father. He told me, “Son, before speaking about a subject, be sure you know what you’re talking about.” He also told me not to wedge my head in the spindles of a staircase railing. The latter has nothing to do with this article but it’s just darn good advice I thought I’d share.
To familiarize myself with the bike path, I went to the town's website. I spent the next half-hour angrily clicking around the site, inventing more curse words, and thanks to my daughter’s skills at web navigation, I was able to pull up a map of the path just before the bulging vein, in the center of my forehead, exploded all over our computer. On the page in front of me was a tangled collection of multi-colored, lines, dashes, dots and stripes. I tried to make sense and follow all the twists and turns but my frustration reached the same level as when I look behind the T.V. and try visually sift through the 13 or so, gnarled cables, to single out a cord to unplug. Eventually, I just grab the mass of cords and violently shake them, until the one I’m seeking disengages from the power strip. However, no matter how hard I shook the computer, I still couldn’t find my way around that map. I just want to ride my bike! Why can’t bike riding be simple, like when we were young?
When I was a kid, my bike was my horse, laying peacefully on the driveway behind one of the back tires of the old man’s car, waiting for me to bust out of the house, saddle up and peddle off like a fool, down the street. It was pure freedom. I’m certain you remember this, as well. We didn’t need a path. We didn’t need a destination. As long as we could ride no-handed for a stretch, jump a brick-supported, plywood ramp or “pop a wheelie,” we were happy. As I’ve matured, my relationship with bike riding has changed.
My first bike was a shiny, red tricycle. I was seven and ridiculed. But that didn’t stop me from using my tricycle in the manner in was meant to be used. I’d turn it over, grab on to the peddles and while rapidly turning them, scream out, “Ice cream, ice cream! Who wants some ice cream!?!” I don’t know why I associated a spinning bike wheel with distributing frozen dairy treats, I just did.
A couple years later, all the cool kids were riding BMX dirt bikes. The medium-cool kids rode imitation BMX bikes called, “Huffy Thunder Road.” I rode a gold, Schwinn 2-wheeler with high, loopy handle bars and a huge black, banana-style seat. One thing I’ve noticed about bike seats, in general. When I was young and had a butt the size of a postage stamp, bike seats were as big as surfboards. Now that my rear is the size of a Fedex envelope, bike seats look more like a suppository. I’m not sure if my angst about riding a bike stems from losing control and plowing into a prickly bush or the embarrassment of soliciting the neighbor’s help in extricating the tiny bike seat from my ass.
It was also imperative to accessorize your bike with cool gizmos. BMX-ers had studded tires called “knobbies.” That’s all they needed. Other kids slipped a small, black box over the end of one of the handlebars. It had a handle which, when turned, made an intimidating roaring noise. I believe it was called “Raw Power” and I didn’t have that either. For my eleventh birthday, I received a shiny, metal horn with a big, black rubber bulb on the end. When I squeezed the bulb, it emitted an embarrassing honking noise, like a bad comedian after telling a joke in a burlesque show. “Guys, wait up!!! Honk! Honk!!” I also had a license plate from a box of Honeycomb cereal. Unfortunately, the sticker sheet which accompanied the license plate, had no duplicate letters, so putting “Matt” on the plate was out. I always wanted a cool nickname, so I became “Snake” Foley, according to my Honeycomb license plate.
Having a bike that looked cool was important but the tricks you could do on your bike really defined who you were in the neighborhood. Many summer days were spent perfecting these bike maneuvers and as far as tricks were concerned, I could manage a respectable wheelie and I could ride the entire neighborhood no –handed. As far as my parents were concerned, they were pretty indifferent to my impressive two-wheeler tricks, except for one. I remember one evening, I met my dad at the street corner and challenged him to a race home. It was his silver 1976 Chevy Nova with red, felt interior and black-wall tires against my gold Schwinn, tricked out with a clown horn and smelling of Honeycomb cereal. As usual, he kept it close until we were half-way home, then he blew my doors off. Way to go dad…big man! Anyway, this particular night, I couldn’t wait to show him the new trick I learned. Dad exited his car and watched me as I approached the house. Then, just before I reached our driveway, I jumped off my bike and watched it ride itself to a crashing heap, right in front of our house. Out of breath from peddling and excitement over my newly developed trick, I wheezed out,
“Did you see that!?! Wasn’t that cool? It’s called “Ghost Riding.” Immediately, I felt a firm hand settle on the back of my skinny neck, followed by a tugging sensation on the back loop of my Toughskin jeans. From the general red/purplish hue radiating from his angry face, I started to sense that he wasn’t impressed with my new trick. He hoisted me up by the neck and pants, like he was toting around a plump, lawn mower bag full of grass clippings. With each pounding stride he took, the coarse Toughskin jeans wedged further and further up my ass. When we came upon the closed front door, I offered to open it, seeing as my dad’s hands were full and I wasn’t doing anything but dangling. Quickly, he rushed through the front hall and stopped at the base of the second floor stairway. With a mighty heave, he “Ghost Rode” me all the way up the stairs and like my bike, I fell in a heap outside my bedroom door. Then he yelled at me to get in my room and stay there until I stopped doing stupid things. Lucky for me, he eventually showed leniency or I’d still be up there, as I just can’t seem to break the habit of doing stupid things.
Boy, I’m sure glad John sent we off digging up such fine memories. Sure makes me want to unhook the old bike from the garage ceiling and take off. Better yet, maybe I’ll just ride the stationary bike in our bedroom, that is, if I can get all the hanging shirts off the handle bars.
“You should write about the village's new bike path.” I thanked him for the idea, as I always welcome thoughts from readers, and started thinking of an angle for a column. I wasn’t all that familiar with the bike path and it was this lack of knowledge, which resurrected some past wisdom from my father. He told me, “Son, before speaking about a subject, be sure you know what you’re talking about.” He also told me not to wedge my head in the spindles of a staircase railing. The latter has nothing to do with this article but it’s just darn good advice I thought I’d share.
To familiarize myself with the bike path, I went to the town's website. I spent the next half-hour angrily clicking around the site, inventing more curse words, and thanks to my daughter’s skills at web navigation, I was able to pull up a map of the path just before the bulging vein, in the center of my forehead, exploded all over our computer. On the page in front of me was a tangled collection of multi-colored, lines, dashes, dots and stripes. I tried to make sense and follow all the twists and turns but my frustration reached the same level as when I look behind the T.V. and try visually sift through the 13 or so, gnarled cables, to single out a cord to unplug. Eventually, I just grab the mass of cords and violently shake them, until the one I’m seeking disengages from the power strip. However, no matter how hard I shook the computer, I still couldn’t find my way around that map. I just want to ride my bike! Why can’t bike riding be simple, like when we were young?
When I was a kid, my bike was my horse, laying peacefully on the driveway behind one of the back tires of the old man’s car, waiting for me to bust out of the house, saddle up and peddle off like a fool, down the street. It was pure freedom. I’m certain you remember this, as well. We didn’t need a path. We didn’t need a destination. As long as we could ride no-handed for a stretch, jump a brick-supported, plywood ramp or “pop a wheelie,” we were happy. As I’ve matured, my relationship with bike riding has changed.
My first bike was a shiny, red tricycle. I was seven and ridiculed. But that didn’t stop me from using my tricycle in the manner in was meant to be used. I’d turn it over, grab on to the peddles and while rapidly turning them, scream out, “Ice cream, ice cream! Who wants some ice cream!?!” I don’t know why I associated a spinning bike wheel with distributing frozen dairy treats, I just did.
A couple years later, all the cool kids were riding BMX dirt bikes. The medium-cool kids rode imitation BMX bikes called, “Huffy Thunder Road.” I rode a gold, Schwinn 2-wheeler with high, loopy handle bars and a huge black, banana-style seat. One thing I’ve noticed about bike seats, in general. When I was young and had a butt the size of a postage stamp, bike seats were as big as surfboards. Now that my rear is the size of a Fedex envelope, bike seats look more like a suppository. I’m not sure if my angst about riding a bike stems from losing control and plowing into a prickly bush or the embarrassment of soliciting the neighbor’s help in extricating the tiny bike seat from my ass.
It was also imperative to accessorize your bike with cool gizmos. BMX-ers had studded tires called “knobbies.” That’s all they needed. Other kids slipped a small, black box over the end of one of the handlebars. It had a handle which, when turned, made an intimidating roaring noise. I believe it was called “Raw Power” and I didn’t have that either. For my eleventh birthday, I received a shiny, metal horn with a big, black rubber bulb on the end. When I squeezed the bulb, it emitted an embarrassing honking noise, like a bad comedian after telling a joke in a burlesque show. “Guys, wait up!!! Honk! Honk!!” I also had a license plate from a box of Honeycomb cereal. Unfortunately, the sticker sheet which accompanied the license plate, had no duplicate letters, so putting “Matt” on the plate was out. I always wanted a cool nickname, so I became “Snake” Foley, according to my Honeycomb license plate.
Having a bike that looked cool was important but the tricks you could do on your bike really defined who you were in the neighborhood. Many summer days were spent perfecting these bike maneuvers and as far as tricks were concerned, I could manage a respectable wheelie and I could ride the entire neighborhood no –handed. As far as my parents were concerned, they were pretty indifferent to my impressive two-wheeler tricks, except for one. I remember one evening, I met my dad at the street corner and challenged him to a race home. It was his silver 1976 Chevy Nova with red, felt interior and black-wall tires against my gold Schwinn, tricked out with a clown horn and smelling of Honeycomb cereal. As usual, he kept it close until we were half-way home, then he blew my doors off. Way to go dad…big man! Anyway, this particular night, I couldn’t wait to show him the new trick I learned. Dad exited his car and watched me as I approached the house. Then, just before I reached our driveway, I jumped off my bike and watched it ride itself to a crashing heap, right in front of our house. Out of breath from peddling and excitement over my newly developed trick, I wheezed out,
“Did you see that!?! Wasn’t that cool? It’s called “Ghost Riding.” Immediately, I felt a firm hand settle on the back of my skinny neck, followed by a tugging sensation on the back loop of my Toughskin jeans. From the general red/purplish hue radiating from his angry face, I started to sense that he wasn’t impressed with my new trick. He hoisted me up by the neck and pants, like he was toting around a plump, lawn mower bag full of grass clippings. With each pounding stride he took, the coarse Toughskin jeans wedged further and further up my ass. When we came upon the closed front door, I offered to open it, seeing as my dad’s hands were full and I wasn’t doing anything but dangling. Quickly, he rushed through the front hall and stopped at the base of the second floor stairway. With a mighty heave, he “Ghost Rode” me all the way up the stairs and like my bike, I fell in a heap outside my bedroom door. Then he yelled at me to get in my room and stay there until I stopped doing stupid things. Lucky for me, he eventually showed leniency or I’d still be up there, as I just can’t seem to break the habit of doing stupid things.
Boy, I’m sure glad John sent we off digging up such fine memories. Sure makes me want to unhook the old bike from the garage ceiling and take off. Better yet, maybe I’ll just ride the stationary bike in our bedroom, that is, if I can get all the hanging shirts off the handle bars.
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