When I'm Sixty-Four

“When I get older

Losing my hair

Many years from now

Will you still be sending me a Valentine?

Birthday greetings bottle of wine?” . . . The Beatles.

With this pandemic still raging losing my hair is not the issue. It's not being able to get out. This summer vacation (2020) has come to a screeching halt. We canceled our trip to France and were still navigating restrictions. Lately, I’ve been reflecting back on childhood memories. What prompted that you ask? Well, one month from today is When I’m 64 comes true for me. A rather fortuitous time to reflect it seems.

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 our small family back to the midwestern town of Cuba.

One of my most vivid and fond early memories was the challenge and freedom of that first bicycle. Mine 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.

You see, at five years old, and about three feet tall this behemoth looked to me like The General Sherman - it was huge! (It never came to me in those wards at the time).

But, that did not dampen my spirit to ride, I was determined!

By Dad lowering the seat, it was possible to reach the pedals, however not quite enough to complete a revolution of the crank to power the bicycle.

“He’ll grow into it.”

That was Dads theory . . . in the meantime, he bolted thick wooden blocks to the pedals so I could reach them and ride.

My next challenge . . . “How to mount this monster?” No problem - just kidding - it was a problem!

When Mom or 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 seven street, had a wooden back porch with two steps about three feet off the ground. My (brilliant) solution, stand the bike beside the porch, mount it, push off, whee - now what? Once in motion, floundering around the yard, the next dilemma was,

“How do I get off this thing?

Unlike today, kids were not cushioned with helmets, safety goggles, and knee pads. This was the baby boom era, I’m thinking there were so many of us we were considered dispensable. Or, maybe it was the lack of creative marketing by the toy manufacturers?

Anyway, after falling more times than I dare count, the answer came in a flash of clever insight. Simply ride into Mom’s lilac bush and climb off! It worked like a charm, however that didn't go over too well with Mom.

It was some time before I was allowed to go out onto the street. Eventually, it was around the block, uptown, to school, and a few years later I was riding to Canton and back, an 18-mile round trip.

Since that time, however, me and my many different makes and models of bicycles have pedaled to scores of locations, and ridden hundreds of miles, far beyond the quiet streets of that small town in Illinois.

Thankfully, that curiosity and sense of wonder never left me. At 64 my bicycle still symbolizes freedom, fun, and a dependable source of independent transportation.

“I could be handy

Mending a fuse

When your lights have gone

You can knit a sweater by the fireside

Sunday mornings go for a ride” . . .

This is Patrick Ball, thanks for listening. See you in the next episode . . .

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