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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?
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