It’s family legend that I got my first two-wheeler because my father had a good night at poker, and who’d want to tinker with a story like that. (Haven Kimmel, in “A Girl Named Zippy,” has a hauntingly beautiful chapter on the things her family gained and lost, according to her father’s luck, but I knew only about my father’s good luck, as he played for small stakes.)
But it was only in retelling that oft-told story a few days ago that I remembered a detail about that bike — it had a cut-out of a blue elephant balanced on the fender above the rear wheel. And while the bike was used, and painted a flat, utilitarian blue, that elephant made me feel so extraordinary, so special. I was the only kid in the neighborhood with such a decorative feature on my bike. The elephant is stronger in my memory than the actual moment when the training wheels came off and I went lurching forward on my own.
Never had training wheels. But I DO recall being the last to learn just about ANY physical skill that my peer group learned. Last to be able to ride said 2-wheeler, last to learn the crawl; but when I did, it was “poof”. I couldn’t I couldn’t I couldn’t then one day, I could. The end. I blame it on being left-handed. Why not? Doesn’t that sound complex?
Years ago, when I got my first motorized scooter to get around in, I immediately headed to the bike store some blocks away and bought tassles for the handlebars. Okay, AND reflective stickers – that looked like planets and stars. Just like a bike.
My first two-wheeler was red. It replaced a very nifty pedal fire truck. The fire truck was also bright red, with a shiny bell and two wooden ladders that were each about 24 inches long. It was the first major Christmas gift I ever received. It was also the first gift I remember getting that I didn’t have to share with my older brother. He was well beyond pedal trucks by then. And best of all, it was brand new, not a hand-me-down.
The neighborhood play area was the alley behind our house. Pedaling the fire truck I could almost keep up with the big kids on their two-wheelers. I loved being able to make more noise than they ever could, even with their baseball cards stuck in the spokes.
With the two-wheeler I gained independence. But the fire truck was my first encounter with pride of ownership.
Remember what it was like to learn to ride a bike without training wheels? I learned on an old girl’s bike (the bike was old, not the girls) that had belonged to my Uncle Dick, then my Aunt Marion, then my Aunt Ellen and finally resided in my Grandpa’s garage. Grandpa or Dad would hold the bike upright and walk along while I “rode” it. Then they’d let go for longer and longer periods until I really was riding it (and generally terrified). Learning to stop was fun. Find a soft enough spot to fall in when the bike slowed down and tipped over.
MY first bike was a bright red and white “Excelsior” (made by Schwinn). One day my Dad told me that “some guy” left that bike in front of our Mom & Pop grocery store and Dad wondered if I could ride it. I went to the end of the block and back, and Dad told me that the “guy” had left it for me. I think I was 7 or 8. Life was good.