The Saturday Journal: For the Love of a Bicycle
I was going to title this story, Ode to a Bicycle–but the word ‘ode’ is mostly referring to a poem--a song. This is neither--it's more of a love letter.
Looking back, I really do believe my first love growing up (other than family) was a bicycle–not a doll or even a boy. It was my bicycle. I did have a doll I loved deeply–a Pebbles doll from the Flintstones family. She wore a bone in her top-knot–a leopard print shirt and black shorts–just like in the cartoon. Pebbles often accompanied me to church–I still have her–that’s a story for another day.
My first bicycle was actually a tricycle–a three wheeler–red with black and white tires. It wasn't long before my knees began rubbing the handlebars every time I turned the pedals--then I got a bicycle with training wheels, then graduating to the "beloved" spider bike. And I don’t recall too much about the spider bike other than it had a white basket with flowers and streamers that hung from each handlebar–like a cheerleader’s pom-poms-- the streamers the colors of silver and pink, they glistened in the light of the sun.
When my brothers and I learned to ride our bikes–we didn’t have a paved driveway or cemented carport or helmets or knee pads or shin guards. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with the protective gear--I'm thankful my grandchildren have all those things and I sometimes, too, wear a helmet--now.
Growing up we had grass and dirt and a graveled hill in front of our house--a child’s dream and more times than not– our parents’ anguish. I don’t call to mind any wrecks on the hill–it was more of when we came down the hill–turning the corner full speed into our driveway–jumping the hump and sliding sideways in our yard–"laying it down" we called it…
In that spot was where most of the fun and cuts and scrapes and dents, and yes, some crying occurred.
I did take my chances on my bike back then–but nothing like my youngest brother. He would watch Evel Knievel on television and on this one occasion he built a ramp with boards, placing them on a big mound of gravel in our driveway. My brother got up enough speed to hit the ramp and needless to say his landing wasn’t as smooth as the ones on TV–like the ones Mr. Evel Knievel did.
There was another time during my childhood when my other brother–he had the coolest red bicycle–not a spider bike–but one with low handlebars. Now he was a Robin fan–not Batman, but Robin. And on the handlebars sat his superhero plastic Robin figure that rested on a wire coiled spring. And the faster he would ride–as fast as the training wheels would allow–the more Robin would jump around. But there was this one incident when Robin almost took flight--the day my brother learned to ride without training wheels.
It was time–past time for him to ride that red bike without his training wheels–at least that’s what his older sister thought anyway. So I got into my Grandpa’s toolbox–using the pliers and hammer and removed those training wheels. And to the back yard at my Grandparent’s house we went. There was a slight “slope” close to the grapevine–it wasn’t even that big of a hill, really. I coaxed my brother into sitting on the seat–helped him get his balance, and then told him to hang on to the grips and keep the front tire straight. And with one big push he went barreling down the “slope”, his front tire weaving side to side like he was passing cars at Talladega. And I don’t know who was holding on tighter to the handlebars–my brother or his superhero, Robin--all the while I was yelling, keep your front tire straight! Keep pedaling!!
He wrecked at the bottom of the “slope”. He had no injuries to speak of. Then he ran home and told Mama and Daddy what I had done. Just like brothers and sisters–I know. My Mama fussed at me. My Daddy laughed. And after that one eventful day–let's just say, my brother never had to use his training wheels again.
I have so many other memories of riding my bicycles–riding my small spider bike in circles on my Grandparents’ carport for what seemed like hours. And the one time my step grandfather Burton gave me a "much too big" boy’s black and white “English bicycle” with hand brakes. I thought I was in heaven when he gave me that bike. But me and that bike was never meant to be and needless to say–I learned a few lessons the hard way–one shouldn’t ride a bike in which your feet will barely touch the ground.
Over the years, I have continued to ride a bike. It's freeing–like going back in time–to the simpler days of childhood--where summers seemed to last for an eternity. There’s nothing that compares–getting up some speed–standing tall–pedaling hard and then coasting down a hill–the wind blowing in your face--through your hair. Or a gentle ride–pedaling a lazy and slow pace on a greenway–enjoying the beauty of a mountain trail.
And this remembering–reflecting back on riding my bicycles over the years–the miles I have rode–the memories I treasure–the stories are more than I can write in one sitting. And perhaps, I’ll write part two of For the Love of a Bicycle some day. But for now, I’ll leave you with one more story–it’s about me and a bicycle wreck and the generosity of a dear lady.
A group of us from my church decided we would all get together and take a trip to Damascus–ride our bikes on the Virginia Creeper–pedal from the crest of Whitetop–all seventeen miles–mostly downhill.
On this particular trip it had rained and the bridges were damp and fresh rainwater still clung to potholes on the trail. Some of us–we were celebrating our second childhood–hitting every mudhole we could find–clearing them out for others, we said. I was riding across one of the bridges and I knew it had a slightly deeper drop-off at the end so right before I got to the spot I turned around–only for a few seconds and told my daughter who was riding behind me about the drop-off and to be careful. And then it happened–I swerved and my handlebar clipped the railing on the bridge and down I went–not off the bridge–I hit the ground. My knee, already covered in mud, was now more red than brown–but no broken bones, and my bicycle–thankfully, still intact.
And along this trail sits a little white cafe and a church bike ride was never complete without lunch at this landmark. So on this day we pulled off the trail into the grassy field–park our bikes and went inside to wash our hands–order our food. And by this time my knee was throbbing, but not from a bruise. I went to the bathroom, wet a few paper towels and came back out to sit at one of the booths to clean my knee. My knee was caked with so much mud, I didn’t realize a layer of my skin was missing.
As I sat there gritting my teeth and holding my breath each time the water touched my burning and bloody skin–one of the sweet older ladies in our group reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of ointment. Now this lady always carried a bag of goodies when she rode with us–snacks, lotion, creams, meds, and of course–red lipstick. You just never know when you might need to paint your lips when you're out on the bike trail.
I said thank you and she held the packet for me–squeezing out the clear liquid. I carefully rubbed the ointment on my knee and then she said to me, while smiling this beautiful smile with lips painted bright red, 'That’s hemorrhoid cream, but it’ll still do the trick on your knee.'
Thou hast put gladness in my heart
Psalm 4:7
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All photos @copyright Tathel Miller, unless otherwise credited to another photographer
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