An old coot remembers his first bike; the best Christmas
present ever.
by Merlin lessler
It happened two Christmases in row! The best presents a
boy (in the fifties) could hope for were under my tree. But, I had to wait an
“eternity” to play with them. The first time it happened, I was seven; it was a
set of electric trains; I didn’t get my hands on them until late in the day,
after my father finally had his fill, “showing me how.” The next year it was a
bicycle; I didn’t get to ride that until the following spring. My sister,
Madeline, and I both got bikes that year, second-hand, but freshened up with a
new coat of paint. We didn’t care; they sparkled, as did our eyes when we saw
them under the tree. But, into the basement they went for three long months.
Finally, the first robin arrived in Binghamton and the
bikes came out. We lived on Chadwick Road; it was too steep to learn to ride a
bike on so my father helped us push them up the hill to Moore Ave, a flat
street with hardly any traffic. I can still remember the exhilaration of
staying upright while he pushed me. I remember even more vividly, the terror I
felt when I looked over my shoulder and discovered he wasn’t there. I panicked
and crashed to the ground. He eventually convinced me that I’d kept the bike
upright all by myself and didn’t need his help, except to get started. I hopped
back on, and like Hop-a-long Cassidy, my cowboy hero, rode off into the sunset.
One problem; I didn't know how to dismount. When I came to a stop, I simply
fell over.
My sister solved the problem. She raced ahead, jumped off
her bike and caught me as I came to a stop. Later on, I just stopped near the
curb and put out my foot. It wasn’t my fault; the bike was too big, like
everything in those days. We had to “grow into” stuff: shoes, clothes, skates,
sleds and yes, bikes. I went around in oversized jeans (we called them
dungarees) with a six inch cuff, shoes with wadded up newspaper stuffed in the
toes and to top it off, I had to use a curb to get on and off my bike.
I developed a deep relationship with that two-wheeler. It
allowed me to leave behind my three-wheeler and the ridicule that went with it.
I don't think a cowboy ever loved his horse more than I loved that bike. It was
freedom; it was status; and it taught me how to fix things. I learned to take
it apart and convert it into a racing bike, by removing the fenders, reversing
the handlebars and raising the seat. Sometimes, I decorated it with red, white
and blue crepe paper and rode at the tail end of the parades in downtown
Binghamton. A lot of kids did. We also “clothes pinned” a piece of cardboard to
the fender support so it would flap against the spokes and made it sound like
we were riding motorcycles. It didn’t take much to entertain a kid back in the
fifties.
My mother loved the bike too. She sent me off to Bill
Scales’ market on Pennsylvania Avenue just about every day. My favorite errand
was a bread run. I always snuck a slice out of the middle of the loaf; it was
the price my mother unknowingly paid for delivery service. I lost my
concentration on one of those bread runs, distracted by the freshness of the
bread I guess, and crashed into the side of a delivery truck. I was only
slightly injured. More startled than anything.
A neighbor passing by ran to my house and yelled in the door to my
mother, “Come quick; Merlin has been hit by a truck!” Mom got a terrible scare,
but I paid for it. Once she discovered I was OK she started yelling, and kept
it up all the way home! Those gray hairs I allegedly gave her were painful for
me too. The bike got fixed and served me well for years. Then, the year I
turned 12, I found a lightweight, English bike, with hand brakes and three
gears under the Christmas tree. It was brand-new and the exact right size. I
was ecstatic, but I’ll always think of that used, repainted bicycle as best
Christmas present ever.
My sister and I the year we got our first bikes
My sister and I the year we got the English bikes
My friend Woody (on the back) and I (last year on a trike)
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