Skip to main content

My First Bicycle

Patrick Ball 1962
My kid days were filled with experiences, like learning to ride a bicycle, that decorate my thoughts akin to the excitement of colorfully wrapped Christmas gifts.

As another birthday approaches, I realize now that growing up in Cuba, Illinois was going to happen with no particular thought or effort on my part. As an insatiably curious child, I stumbled through those early years not really paying attention to where we lived just accepting the fact - as I look back, appreciating the fact - we lived in a small midwestern town.

 I slid down the chute on the 229th day of the year, August 16, 1956. It was a Thursday in Angouleme, France. My father was an MP in the U.S. Army, from rural Illinois, and within three years he moved the family back to Cuba.

 One of my most vivid early memories was the challenge and freedom of that first bicycle. It was a red, single speed 26 inch Sears bicycle. No training wheels, just hop on and away you go . . . well, it was not quite that easy.

At seven years old, and about three feet tall this behemoth, looked to me like the General Sherman, it was huge. Determined, that did not dampen my spirit to ride it. Lowering the the seat it was possible to reach the pedals with toes extended, however not quite enough to complete a revolution of the crank to power the bike. Dads theory was . . . “He’ll grow into it,” in the mean time, he bolted thick wooden blocks to the pedals so I could reach them and ride. 
Ronnie, Patrick, & Rodger
My next challenge . . . how to mount this monster? No problem - just kidding - it was a problem. When Dad was there to hold the bike I would climb aboard like scaling a ladder. By myself, hmmm, there must be a way. Our house, on seventh street, had a wooden back porch with two steps about two feet off the ground. My (brilliant) solution, stand the bike beside the porch, mount it, and push off, whee - now what? Once in motion, floundering around the yard, the next dilemma was how to dismount? After falling more times that I dare count, the answer came in a flash of clever insight. When I wanted to stop, without falling, simply ride into the lilac bush and climb off! It worked like a charm, however that didn't go over too well with Mom. She finally relented when she realized the only other way to stop was to fall over.

During the 60's, kids were not adorned with helmets and knee pads as they are today. It was the middle of the baby boom, I guess there were so many of us we were considered expendable. Or, maybe is was the lack of creative marketing by the toy manufactures? Anyway, it was some time before I was allowed to go out onto the street. Then, it was around the block, uptown, to school, and a few years later I was riding to Canton and back, a 18 mile (29 kilometer) round trip (Ask Bruce Marshall some time about riding to Canton - that’s another story).

Since that time however, me and my many different makes and models of bicycles have traveled to scores of locations, and ridden hundreds of miles, far beyond the quiet streets of that small town in Illinois. That curiosity and sense of wonder never left me. Today, from those early beginnings, my bike still symbolizes independent transportation and freedom.

Ah, Summer! Do you have an early memory of your first bicycle?
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Yellow Legal Pad

In this episode, the Art of Refiring July 1st is staring me in the face, less than two weeks away. For years, retirement seemed like something that happened to other people. Suddenly, it's on my calendar. I've been thinking a lot about the dreaded "R-word" lately. Not because I'm worried about having enough to do. Quite the opposite. What fascinates me is this strange paradox: Why does retirement make so many of us nervous, while having a job—even one that regularly drives us crazy—somehow feels comforting? Let's be honest. Most of us spend years complaining about meetings that should have been emails, reply-all disasters, impossible deadlines, and that one coworker who insists on microwaving leftover fish in the breakroom. Yet when the idea of walking away finally arrives, we hesitate. I think I've figured out why. A career isn't just a job. It's a highly structured coping mechanism. For forty-plus years, somebody else has basically decided what I...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Big Rip and the First Tee

The telescope (Celestron) sits quietly under its cover, temporarily blinded by Southern California's annual meteorological hostage situation – June Gloom. Somewhere above that thick gray ceiling, photons that began their journey before humans appeared are streaming across the cosmos, only to be intercepted by a marine layer that seems to have veto power over astronomy. Instead of observing the universe, I find myself imagining – The End of Everything (Astrophysically Speaking) by physicist Katie Mack. According to modern cosmology, the universe may eventually end in a Big Rip, a Big Crunch, Heat Death, Vacuum Decay, or some other catastrophe that sounds suspiciously like a rejected heavy-metal album title. Astrophysicists spend their careers calmly discussing the possibility that reality itself could suddenly cease to exist because a quantum field had a bad day. It's a remarkable way to start a Saturday morning. One moment you're contemplating the ultimate fate of spacetime...
Post a Comment
Read more

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...
Post a Comment
Read more