Bicycle, bicycle

I am sure that the tune, "Bicycle," wasn't even a glimmer in Freddy Mercury's eye when I got a brand new bike in 1976. It was my tenth birthday. And, the bike was a Schwinn. Every spoke in the big round wheels promised to buy my freedom. In the way that fifth graders can still sorta believe in Santa Clause and the tooth fairy, I had a secret hope that my bike would change my life. (Of course, I also wished for acne, braces and glasses at that age, so you get a sense of my priorities.)

My parents had agreed to pay for half of the $60 needed to assure my place in the band of merry neighborhood bikers. For more than a year I had saved my money to pay for that sweet ride. I dreamed of the curved handlebars wrapped in miles of black tape-grip. The weight of the sturdy maroon frame. The handbrakes at my fingertips. The click, click, click of the gear shift in that the single moment that hangs you in nothingness before your pedals engage, and you gain solid traction again.

In my fertile mind's eye, my social standing would be transformed by the magic in this hunk of metal, rubber, chains, and bolts. I would be cool. Part of a club that mattered. A real MSBO (member of the society of bicycle ownership.)

Imagine my surprise when I realized that my parents would insist that I get a girl's bike instead of a boy's bike. Nowhere in all my fantasies had the bar between my legs been anything but straight. The vision I had of myself riding with no hands did not include anything so sissified as a the dip of a girlie bar. My inner tom-boy shrieked. It begged and pleaded against the injustice. It wept and wailed in a way that no boy would have ever done.

I don't remember how they changed their minds, but I know that they did, because that October I had the bicycle of my dreams.

My only other bike had come from the Drumore public dump that was up the hill and down the lane past the bottom of the pasture on Scalpy Hollow Road. My father had rescued it and brought it home for me to call my very own. He fixed the broken pedal with a wooden block, and tightened the rusted silver handlebars. He filled the little tires with compressed air until they were firm and true.

Under the shadow of the silo I learned to ride that bike in the barnyard outside the chicken house. While our cattle summered in the southern pasture, the winter's accumulation of manure was scraped free from the cement yard to leave a smooth place that was perfect for me to practice.

There were no training wheels for me. I would have none of that. Only my tip-toes would keep me balanced on the white banana seat while I gathered my courage to roll forward. I would teeter back and forth until finally, I picked up my feet, and I was riding. RIDING.

Bicycle, bicycle. I want to ride my bicycle. I want to ride my bike.

Round and round, I sped. As my confidence grew, I would race as fast as I could from one end of the barnyard to the other. I would slam on my brakes and skid to a halt. I can remember how proud I was to be handling my bike like a big kid.

The real test though was the steep hill that stretched from the bottom of our driveway to the top of forever. It took all that fall and winter to psyche myself up for the challenge. Then one morning in early spring found me at the top looking down at the house and barn. I took a deep breath.

One, two, three...

I pushed off and pedaled just a little. My purple Huffy gathered speed and rolled past the stubbled field on the left. The wheels were turning themselves, and the pedals were pumping my legs on their own by the time I passed the second field. The road slid by in a blur as my knuckles gripped the wobbling handlebars. The sign at the bottom loomed in front of me before it registered that I was still upright. I had not fallen when I had been so certain that I would.

Disbelieving my own success, I yanked my wheel hard to the right and leaned over on purpose just to fall and get it out of the way. Later, my mother picked the gravel from my knees and wiped the snotty strings from my nose while I hiccuped and snuffled.

I think it took weeks for my scabs to heal. And, my trusty bicycle leaned against the stoop for a couple of days before I tried to ride it again.

Today, there are times when someone I know really messes up. They make choices that can only bring heartache. And, I wonder what in the world they could be thinking. Then I am reminded that it was I who brought myself to ruin at the bottom of that hill so many years ago.

And, I wonder if it is sometimes about choosing HOW and WHEN you fall rather than waiting for it to happen.