Bound By the Tires That Bind

Remember when…when “Heavy Metal” wasn’t a music choice?

When things were easy and life was a one speed, and baseball cards and clothespins made music in the wind? How many of us can remember our bikes as children? I suspect all of us can. And, I suspect their memories evoke some pretty pleasing smiles.

Those Huffys and Schwinns that stood upright with the help of their mighty kick stands. Those steel one speeds that weighed more than us; yet we pedaled them faster than the neighbor’s dog could run. Those banana seats that could hold you and your “for the day” best friend, along with a bat, a ball, your gloves, and your brown paper sacks. Those sacks that contained your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wonder Bread (“helps build strong bodies in 12 ways,”) and the infamous Twinkie or Hostess Cup Cake. Sustenance of a day’s play; these were the things that kids were made of.

Growing up with three brothers didn’t warrant much feminine frilly time…you learned to play the rough and tumbled way; soiled face, Medusa hairdo, dirt underneath your fingernails, and a pocket knife within your jeans. You had to be prepared to move at a moments notice. You never stood still for too long, you just couldn’t sacrifice the time to hang around home burning daylight and consuming your own energy on the mundane…there had to be an adventure lurking somewhere and it had your name on it.

We’d ride our bikes with vengeance and vitality to anywhere, doing everything. We could jump off them as quick as a wink and with a swift kick, let them lean on their only stationary limb, or we’d throw them down with regimented purpose, rarely giving thought to the consequences of a battered paint job. Those marks were testimony to their usefulness. We talked of touching them up with model paint when it was raining…but then again, sacrificing riding in the puddles for maintenance was a no brainer.

I’m most certain we all thought there was a “Bike Fairy” as we never had flats, we never lubed the chains, and we never seemed to have any mechanical issues. The only requirement we had was to locate the gas stations for pumping up the tires with the “Free” air.

It wasn’t uncommon to carry the essentials of the day’s play on our bikes. This sometimes involved a fishing pole, small tackle box, and a cottage cheese container poked with holes, filled with shredded newspaper, and the Night Crawlers that we had farmed from the ground the night before. My brothers and I, donned in our pajamas and bare feet, would soak the grass with the garden hose, and use a nine volt battery with copper wires to send them all wiggly-quick above ground. I had the high pressured job of being the “Catcher;” with flashlight in hand and wearing my white Easter Sunday cotton gloves, (I’m soooo a girl) I’d pounce on them like a kitten after catnip. My brothers would chastise me if I let even one slip away back to the underground. We’d count them up to make certain we had enough for the next day’s adventure of fishing at the local quarry. Mom would reluctantly permit us to store them in the refrigerator, but only in the drawer where she kept the rolled-up, waiting to be ironed laundry.

My brothers and I would wake without the aid of an alarm clock and get an early start on the day’s adventure. When I think back I can barely remember a day that wasn’t blessed with warm Saturday sun. Lunches were packed and gear was gathered. There wasn’t any sunscreen to slather on; there weren’t any power bars tucked inside the pockets of wicking jerseys. We wore shorts, and t-shirts, and tennies; no bike gloves, no computers, no gel seats, no bike cleats, no helmets, no maps, no cell phones...no worries.

We’d pedal our bikes to the nearest store to make the necessary purchases; bottles of orange Nesbitt’soda and penny pretzel rods. This was always the start of the day’s adventure. We’d sit on the bench in front of the store and devour our treats and discuss who was catching the biggest fish of the day. Somehow we each knew with that child’s inexplicable psychic ability, yet childlike ignorance, that it wasn’t just the fish catching that would be the biggest thrill of the day…it would be the journey.

Ah, the impoverished young…too naïve to be adultly obnoxious. Forever antsy, unable to stay immobilized…Always, places to go, with no particular place in mind. Relishing a daily diet of nothing more than playtime. Seeking only the mandatory adventure, whose only required outcome be sandboxed smiles, laced with see-sawed giggles. Destined for the occasional swing set bump and bicycle bruise; immensely proud of their claims to fame. A haphazardly told story, streaming with stumbling adjectives, and stuttering “made for play” nouns, that even the stuffiest of adults choose not to loose sight of.

Ah, when I do grow up, I shall but choose to digress daily to the child in me, for it’s there that I may play…no hurry…wanting no more than a mandatory adventure immersed in sandboxed smiles, laced with see-sawed giggles; welcoming the occasional swing set bump and bicycle bruise.