So a few weeks after the disaster, after the bump receded back into my head, where I swear it still puts pressure on my brain, my father decided it was time for me to go get my first two wheeler. We loaded up in the car and headed to Canadian Tire. Back in those days there was an entire floor dedicated to bikes at Canadian Tire, hundreds of bikes. Nowadays, there is one non-descript aisle. We started walking up the stairs to the bike department, George Thorogoods "Bad to the Bone" could have been playing in the background. I got to the top step as if I had just crested the peak of Everest. There it was, as if the lights were shining down from the heavens, a CCM Galaxy Roadster. It was if it had been forged by the fire of Prometheus himself. Metallic candy apple red, chrome fenders, and of course the banana seat and sissy bar to complete the package. I was glowing, this was the one.
We loaded it in the car and I impatiently sat in the car on the way home, squirming around as if I had the proverbial ants in my pants. Neighbourhood kids were always jealous when someone got a new bike, so they all gathered around the car as we were unloading it. As I kicked out the kick stand my young chest swelled for the first time. One of the older neighbourhood kids, Adrian Base, offered to be my Mr. Miyagi (Karate Kid) to this vessel of new found freedom. It was only a matter of minutes before I was riding around, feeling what I can only describe as fulfilled, I now had my wings, I had been pushed from the nest. Within one week I was doing wheelies, within three weeks I was jumping ramps. By the time I started kindergarten, I could do a wheelie all the way to school, about 2 miles.
The bike became my stallion that guided me through the forest of my youth as I have described in previous blogs. I loved that bike, I would spend hours polishing it, oiling the chain, and mounting different baseball cards and hockey cards to the rear spokes. I get a shiver up my spine when I think about how many Mike Bossy, Mark Messier , and Wayne Gretzky rookie cards I ruined in those spokes. Probably a few thousand dollars worth easily. Soon we moved to Calgary and it was time to retire Old Red.
It was right around the time we hit Calgary that bikes started to change. 10 speeds became a lot more popular, and MX and BMX bikes started to hit the scene. I was partial to the MX bikes at the time, they were replicas of motorcycles. They had plastic gas tanks and shocks on both the front and rear. The most comfortable bike in the world to ride, and I got a beauty for Christmas.
We had an area called the dunes by our house, it had all of these high jumps made for guys with motorcycles. We would arrive there en masse like some sort of Hells Angels playground edition. I was a star there, nobody could do jumps like I could, even the kids with the BMX bikes.
The second year I was there doing jumps one day with a buddy when in midair my bike split in two at the front weld. The rear of the bike fell below me and I landed square on the front forks with my "joy division." I was in an immense amount of pain. My friend rode home to get my mother. She arrived in tears about 20 minutes later, loaded me and the remains of my steed into the car, and off to the hospital one more time.
My father was none too happy with the destruction of my bike. We didn't speak for a couple of weeks, but then one weekend he said he was going to take the bike back and scream at them about the weld breaking (even though there were several warning decals on the bike saying that it shouldn't be jumped.) I had a baseball game that day. Upon my return my father was working in the yard and he gave me a look as I walked up. He picked himself up and pulled a garage door opener out of his pocket. He told me they did their best and welded it back together and slapped on some paint. My heart sank, I knew it would never be the same. He clicked the button on the garage door opener and the door slowly rose. Inside was a beautiful new black and silver MX bike, way nicer than my old one.
"Not a bad job eh?" He said to me.
It was one of few if any bonding moments we ever had. I quickly jumped on the bike and tore out of there. I went straight to my friend Trevor's house to show off the bike. I came flying into the driveway and laid the back down in a perfect skid, not even taking the time to throw out the kick stand. I ran to the front door and rang the bell. Trev answered and I talked non-sensically for a minute about my new treasure. Just then I heard a smash and a screaming woman. Trev's mother Myrna had a penchant of being the only woman I know that would drive around with a glass of white wine and a cigarette dangling from her mouth, (don't read it wrong, she was a fantastic woman that I will write about some day, we lost her way too young), she had backed out of the garage and drove over my bike. It was literally folded in half. She walked out of the car, wine glass in hand, walked up to me and said "I hope we both learned a lesson from this." and then walked straight into the house. I can't describe the amount of tears that were streaming down my face as I carried the carcass back home. My fathers wrath would have me bike less and grounded for many months to come.
I knew it was up to me now. I worked very hard on my paper route, and took a job fixing bikes at a bike shop. About a year later I bought my first BMX bike and my racing career began. I loved those years of racing, soon I had a fleet of bikes. At one point I even had a gold plated Kuwahara, and my personal favorite, my PPK Ripper. It weighed 5 pounds. You could spin the frame on your finger.
Years later as I got my drivers license and such, my bike dreams somewhat faded as they always do. But still at times I longed for the wind in my hair. I would dust off the bike and head for the highest hills. About ten years ago I was flying down Highlands Blvd. A motorcycle cop pulled me over and gave me a ticket for not wearing a helmet. I was furious. I have always respected police and the job they have to do, but they were infringing upon my freedoms. I couldn't believe this had become law. I have never ridden a bike again.
The genesis of this was the other day when I walked through a school yard. There aren't any bikeracks anymore. Just a scarred reminder on the ground, a slab of concrete, and some anchors, marking a time gone by. Like a cavemans drawing, or a fossil embossed in the earth. I hear you can get a game for Nintendo Wii where can simulate riding a bike. So sad.
I had an interesting night last night. Sort of a slow Friday going into a long weekend, but I never mind. It was one of the first warm summer evenings of the year. A night you could sit out on the front porch in the rocking chair reading your favorite book, quenching your longing for a time or place in your mind just as the sweating glass of lemonade quenches your thirst.
