A bicycle built for memories.
Somehow we have amassed a fleet of bicycles. But it's still easy to tell
which are the favorites. One son mounts his lightsaber below the seat while my
youngest hooks a knight's shield on his handlebars and sheaths his play sword
there, too. My older boy has
squirt guns mounted like cannons to his.
Back in the day, we tricked out our rides somewhat differently. First
and foremost, there was comfort. Banana seats were ribbed cushioned seats
covered in sparkle finished vinyl and long enough to carry a passenger.
Although carrying an extra rider was possible, it was not quite as comfortable
as going solo.
A common alternative was to have your passenger ride on what we used to
call "Sissy Bar" handlebars. But then seeing (and balance) was a
challenge. Sissy Bars are now
called laid-back handlebars. They are high handlebars so you don't have to lean
forward as with regular ones.
If you had a headlight,
mounted to your handle bar, it was back to the Banana seat for your passenger.
The headlights had a fifties look—sort of a chrome-plated conical housing
that was bracket mounted to your handlebar. A wire ran down to a little
generator mounted on your front fork and powered by the turning of your front
wheel.
I remember waiting impatiently for dusk so I could use mine. Faster
pedaling meant brighter light, though never quite bright enough to throw good
light much past the front wheel. Apparently the light was more so cars could
see the bike at night rather than as an aid to navigation for the rider.
Sometimes next to the headlight was a squeeze horn. How many adults were
driven to the brink by the goose-like honk of this classic accessory? Or worse,
the ring-ring of a bicycle bell—the one you actuated with a press of your
thumb.
Another important upgrade was the personalized license plate. How
seemingly cool to have your name on your bike so that every kid that didn't
like you knew which bike was yours and which tires to deflate. It also easily
identified you to prank victims as you frantically pedaled away from the scene
of the crime, er, prank.
All that pedaling was made easier if you had a 3-speed bike, complete
with a shifter just like on sports cars. This thing looked like it was lifted
from a Mustang and was mounted on the crossbar of your bike. And with a
speedometer, you constantly strove to reach the top-end 60-miles an hour and
eagerly anticipated every mile added to the odometer.
A buddy of mine actually swapped out his handlebars for a steering wheel
to complete the whole sports car feel. You wouldn't think it would be hard to
steer, but I nearly cracked my skull trying to master it.
Aside from the instrument cluster on the handlebars, the posh seating,
3-on-the-bar shifting—perhaps even sideview mirrors—it was still a
common sight (or sound) for playing cars to be slipped into the spokes. They
made a clicking sound that was like the call of the road to 10-year old boys.
The clicks grew faster as you rode faster and slowed to an almost hypnotic
clock like sound as you coasted ever so slowly until you tipped over.
Even today, despite whatever kids glue, hook, bolt, or otherwise affix
to their rides, bikes remain like trusted steeds. They see you through the rain
and muck, spirit you away from danger, or faithfully and courageously charge in
jousts—oh yes, boys joust on bicycles. Bikes also take on imaginary but
highly advanced technologies like nothing else to provide adventure and thrill
far beyond the capacity of any Wii.
The two-wheelers endure endless abuse yet stay right where they are
left, waiting patiently—sometimes upright on their kickstands and other
times laying on their sides. And while the chrome may be scratched and the
paint chipped and the tires worn—maybe even with a bent
wheel—that's okay. Those are signs of a well-loved bike.
Copyright 2007 by David Falloure
