My first bicycle. Royal blue, silver fenders, metal training wheels bolted on to the frame. Practicing, practicing, practicing until I got it right. Riding a bicycle, my first taste of freedom. My second bicycle, a 26 inch with a wire basket in the front to hold my text books. Books covered in brown paper that was once a bag, drawn on, colored on, with stickers and awkward handwriting. I never had good handwriting. I remember learning to ride a bicycle. The scariest part was the space between the wobble from one training wheel hitting the ground, then the other. Or maybe the scariest part was when the rubber actually hit the sidewalk and it felt off balance, like I was going to tip over, fall to the pavement, scrape my knee.
What I remember about my first bicycle isn’t as much about the object as the person who cared enough to hold the back of the seat until I got my balance, the person who ran along beside me when I teetered, who knew when it was safe to let go after the training wheels were unbolted—let go and let me fly. It’s the memories more than the objects. The objects are triggers. When we moved to Pennsylvania, our breezeway was always full of bicycles. Kids and bicycles. There was always one kid learning to ride a bike. It was the way my brothers roamed the streets with their friends.
I don’t remember riding in a group. It was more of a solitary effort for me. A way to get away and be alone. I clearly remember one ride to elementary school. I was so entranced with the ride, with the process, with looking down and viewing my feet turn the pedals, that I forgot to look up, and ran smack dab into a parked car. It jolted me, my text books flew out of the basket and on to the ground. I caught myself before I fell over but that jolt! when the tire hit the chrome fender, I will never forget it. I was embarrassed and looked around to see if anyone saw me fall. Which matters most? The fall or those who witness the fall.
Now that I think about it, my first bicycle taught me to trust. The second taught me how to fly solo, to be faster than anyone else, to not be afraid. My bicycles taught me independence, to trust myself, how to balance when things were careening out of control, how to stop on a dime right before the pothole swallowed me. My first bike was more than a bicycle. It was the beginning of learning to hold the world in the soles of my feet and the handlebar underneath my palms. It was a way to get away from the crowd, time to think, the feeling I’d later experience again when I learned to ride a motorcycle. There is no freedom like being on a two-wheeler, running under the power of your own two feet.
-related to Topic post: WRITING TOPIC — MY FIRST BICYCLE
You created that sense of freedom that a bike gives a young person. I too remember it as a solitary thing I could do that made it possible to go great distances from home and then return…kind of like a bird who flies from the nest.
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QM — Very evocative writing. Thanks for the memory teaser. I had forgotten how my first bike was connected to feelings of freedom and independence. I recall yelling upstairs to no one in particular, “I’m going to ride my bike.” We never said “where” we were going. We never needed to tell anyone that. Going “out” to play was enough information in those days. I do remember the sense of achievement once mastering the perpetual motion and balance of the bicycle, “Keep pedaling. Hold it steady.” The next time I felt a sense of satisfaction at learning such a complicated physical task was when I learned to waterski. How I loved the wind in my hair and flying outside the wake. Still do.
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Bob, how far would you roam from home on your bike in grade school? We probably never went further than 10 blocks or so. I remember staying out really late, until dusk, with the neighborhood kids and playing though. We’d wander the neighborhood, were outside all of the time. Hard to imagine those days now. I’m glued to a computer screen half the time. I was telling Liz the other day that it was even different when we met. We spent much more time outside then and less time online. So much has changed!
I’m up having one of those nightowl moments. I should get to bed, but I want to catch up a little with return comments. I read during the day but often don’t have time to comment until late at night. I miss the weeks when I used to have 2 full days to myself to write and do art.
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breathepeace, thank you. So great to see you here. I had forgotten that essential yell to tell the parents I was going to ride my bike. Same thing on my end. We always announced when we were going outside and how far we might be going. No cell phones, and we rarely called on the landline to check in either. Very independent. Not all the tethering that goes on today.
I can see you waterskiing. It totally fits. I tried waterskiing a few times. It was fun when I got going and was hydroplaning across the water. Was not fun when my arms got tired and I wiped out! My mother was an excellent waterskier when we were growing up. She even did slalom. I was more of a team sport person. And now I’m wondering if you downhill ski. I learned that at a pretty late age in Montana. Fell quite a bit there, too!
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[…] « Under The Rainbow — Twin Cities Pride PRACTICE — My First Bicycle – 15min […]
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QM, I could go as far as I wanted in grade school. We lived in a neighborhood surrounded on two sides by park wilderness of a city park and on a third side by hilly, fenced ground where horses pastured. There was one way out of the neighborhood and that led to everything. I rode on the parkway about 3 blocks from home and followed it miles from home. I never told my mother where I was going because that was part of the freedom of riding the bike.
And you know me, I always showed up on time for meals.
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Quoin,
And then you graduated to a motorcycle. I still remember when I first met you hearing you read your “Into the Curves” essay. I was impressed my new friend rode a Kawasaki/Harley/Triumph. I don’t know the brand, but know you love the River Road by the Mississippi.
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Teri, believe it or not, I was at InterMedia Arts last Saturday for Pride and Liz reminded me that that was the place I read that piece on stage. I still can’t believe I got up there and did that. I guess I was feeling brave and uninhibited. 8) I still haven’t gotten the motorcycle out of storage yet this year. I’d like to do it this weekend if the heat lets up. I have a Honda Rebel. Liz has a Suzuki Savage. I really love the little purple Rebel. The year I got my license, that motorcycle came to me in a dream. Thanks for the memories! From bicycles to motorcycles!
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You two are rebelliously savage.
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8)
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My first bike, a green Schwinn, fat tires, streamers on the hand grips. I was very late walking, bad hip, so the bike was the most exciting thing that had happened to me up to that point, except for the birth of my baby sister! I loved that bike, made my heart leap into my throat just looking at it. For the first time I could actually go fast as anyone else, I could pedal with the best of them. For a time we lived in San Leandro and it had these enormous hills where you struggled to pedal to the top but . . . oh you could fly down. I don’t recall how many close calls I had with cars, just the feeling of flying, the wind making my eyes water and snarling my hair, at the bottom, shooting across the intersection and eventually slowing down and then stopping, standing astraddle the bike, waiting for my breath to catch up with me, waiting for the time that took, until I could pedal back to the top and do it all over again. I am sure my mom would have put a stop to it if she had ever watched me do it but I was lucky in that if I came home every little while and let her know I was still alive I could count on her not coming to find out what I was doing. I don’t remember if that was actual plotting on my part, or just part of discovering how the world works. I do remember being told not to go to the school yard over the weekend. They did not like the kids to play there when school was out, but it was such a lovely expanse of smooth blacktop. One week we had kind of a bicycle clinic at school, complete with traffic cones set up to make a kind of riding course, set up for hand signals and braking and such. Of course, my sister and I wanted to do it as a race course, on the weekend, when there was no one there to get in the way. We snuck off Saturday afternoon, and this time I know I understood it was not allowed, but it was just too tempting. We rode over and took the course as fast as we could, laughing and taking turns. Somehow on one of the turns my foot slipped off the pedal and straight through the spokes of the wheel. I fell and the bike fell over me and my foot was tangled in the broken spokes. My sister, about six at the time and me about nine, she started crying and I did too. Not so much because my ankle hurt and it did, but because there was no help for it now, mom and dad were going to find out we had been at the school. We were in big trouble. When we got me untangled from my bike, I hobbled over and got on my sister’s and she pushed me home. It was a long trip, wobbly and full of stops to rest. And, yes, I broke my ankle, and that was the summer of no swimming, four months in a cast, and no bicycle riding either. My bike was beyond repair and we had no money for a new one. I remember crying for weeks after that for the loss of that joy. I must have read 100 books that long hot summer. I am old now, and for Mother’s Day this year, my husband and my daughter bought me a bike. The neighborhood we live in has never been so exciting. Kids run along behind yelling, “Go, granny, go!” THere are no hills here, but it still feels like flying.
(I have not done a writing practice for years! Thanks for the practice and the memories!)
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Sharron, I really enjoyed your Writing Practice. It has so much energy. And then at the end, you are capturing the energy of bike riding again in your current life. You reminded me of riding “without hands.” That’s what we used to call riding with our hands off the handlebars. Wow, what a feeling.
So you broke your ankle and were tied up for the whole summer! But then, I imagine all the books you must have read that summer. Fun to read. Thanks for sharing. I wonder how your sister would have remembered that same incident. I find it fascinating to ask family members to talk about the same time period and share memories.
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[…] a Writing Topic on red Ravine. Frequent guest writer Marylin Schultz adds her Writing Practice to those of QuoinMonkey and Bob […]
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