“Son, it’s
time we got you a real bike,” Dad said.
I couldn’t
believe my ears. I had been learning to
ride a little kid two-wheeler with training wheels, a hand-me-down from my older
sister. I didn’t like it, but even a
girls’ bike is better than no bike at all.
After a week I was getting the hang of it. With the training wheels up as high as they
would go, I could ride down the whole driveway and back without the little
wheels touching. When Dad got home from
work that afternoon I showed him. He
sized me up and that was that. Today was
the day!
Dad and I climbed into the station wagon and headed
for the tire store. I was so excited I don’t remember the ride
and we got there before I knew it. As we
walked into the store I smelled fresh rubber.
There were tires everywhere, in stacks on the floor, on shelves with flashy
signs and on racks hung from the ceiling. I scanned the room taking it all in, then
zeroed in on the back of the store.
There they were! Bicycles, dozens
of them, lined up in neat rows, all shapes and sizes, everything smelling like
rubber.
Dad went out
back to find a salesman. I was left to
wander in wonderland, rows and rows of shiny new bikes. They were more than I could count and I’m a
pretty good counter. In front were
little kid bikes, which I walked right passed.
Next was a row of spider bikes,
six of them, with high handle bars, banana seats and small wheels with fat
tires. They were racy looking, some with
streamers from the hand grips, but not right for me. Bobby, the kid next door, had a spider and he
had to pedal like crazy to keep up with the other kids. But I was planning on covering a lot of
ground so I gave them a good looking over and moved on.
Next were the English
bikes with downturned handle bars for racing, hand brakes and skinny road tires
on tall spindly rims. One even had a
tire pump hooked on its frame. These
were built to travel and I liked that. I
looked around to see if anyone was watching.
The coast was clear, so I thought I’d try out a fast looking Schwinn
racer. As I swung my leg up my foot sort
of got stuck on the bike’s crossbar and I nearly fell over, taking the row of bikes with me. Hopping on one foot I managed to catch my
balance and unhook my sneaker from the Schwinn.
That was a close call. Maybe
these English bikes aren’t as good as they say.
In the last
row were the regular bikes, touring bikes some people call them. The first few were girls’ bikes, with no top
crossbar. I think that makes it easier
for girls to ride with skirts on. Next
to those were four boys’ bike, heavy and strong, built for action. There in the middle of the row I spotted her.
It was a dream bike, tall and red, long and shining
like a new penny. She was a Western
Flyer, with its frame curving up from the rear axle to meet the steering part
in the front. Above the bar the frame
widened into a tank, just like a motorcycle, which was just for looks, it
didn’t hold any gas. The tank had a
headlight stuck into the front. She had
chrome fenders, chrome rims and white wall tires, a red and white seat with a
red carrier rack on back. All red and
chrome, just like a fire truck, or at least a bike a fireman would ride. This was the one for me!
Dad came back
in with the salesman.
“How old are
you son?” the man asked.
“I’m seven.”
“You’re big
for age,” he said. I liked the sound of
that so I grinned and nodded.
“Our small
frame bikes are over here,” he said, pointing towards the kid bikes and
spiders.
My heart
sank. I didn’t want a kid bike. I looked down at my feet, still holding the
white handgrip of the Western Flyer.
“How about
these?” Dad asked, pointing to the
regular bikes.
“Yeah, how
about these?” I said.
“Well, those
are mostly full-size, might be too much for him to manage. But that red one
there might be okay. It has 25-inch
wheels.”
“Wanna give it
try, son?” Dad asked. I nodded eagerly
and got ready to mount.
“Here, let me
get this,” said the salesman, flipping up the kickstand. I took hold of the grips and swung my foot,
hooking it on the seat the same as I had done on the Schwinn. I struggled free and swung again. No luck.
“Let me try
something,” said the salesman. Stepping over to the counter he grabbed a
wrench. He gripped on a nut below the
seat, loosening it. Giving the seat a twist,
he wiggled it from side to side until it slid down, hitting the frame with a
clunk. The hair on the back of my neck felt
prickly as he worked. He lined the seat
up straight and tightened the nut. “Now
give it try,” he said.
Once more I
held the grips and with everything I had I swung my leg up. I made it!
I was on top of the bike and I slid up onto the seat, one foot just touching
the floor on the tippiest tip of my toe.
“How’s that
feel?” asked the salesman.
“Good.”
“Looks like a
bit of a stretch.”
“Well, I have
my short sneakers on,” I said. “My other
ones are taller.” The men laughed and
smiled at each other. The truth is I
couldn’t reach to put both feet down, but I could just reach with the toe of one
foot.
“Are you sure
it fits okay?” Dad asked.
“Yes sir,” I
said with confidence, struggling to stay up.
“This is the
one you want?” he asked. I nodded
eagerly.
“I can give
you a deal on this,” said the salesman.
“It’s a holdover. The company
quit making ‘em a couple of years ago.”
That cinches it, I thought. Dad
loves a bargain.
They went and
wrote up a paper and Dad gave the man a check.
Then the salesman wiped her down and checked the tire pressure with a
pen looking thing he had in his shirt pocket.
“Be sure to keep both tires pumped up to forty-five pounds, son,” the
salesman said. I agreed, even though
forty-five pounds sounded pretty heavy to me.
I walked the
bike out the door with my Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “Thanks Dad,” I said, as we loaded her into
the back of the car.
“You’re
welcome son. I still remember my first
bike. You enjoy it now, you hear.” I smiled and nodded, then smiled some more.
It seemed like
a long ride but we finally arrived home, Dad, me and my Western Flyer. Lifting the bike out of the back of the car,
Dad said, “Why don’t you give her a spin while I go in and tell Mom we’re
home?” I nodded as he handed me the
bike.
I jumped on
and wobbled my way along the driveway. It
was scary and I took a couple spills, but after a few laps I could manage
okay. I was riding high above the
ground, rolling easily along and feeling the wind in my face. I was free.
It was the first day of the best summer of my life.
