Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Bicycle Memories (Parts 1 & 2), by Lewis

                                                    Part 1

I have already covered a couple of my “bicycle memories” in past stories, including that of lying on the front lawn of my house waiting for Sears to deliver the bicycle that my grandfather had bought for me and having an allergic reaction to the tetanus shot I received after being unintentionally cut off by an older boy while I was still a novice and sailing head-first into a ditch.

Having saved the best for last, I will now relate the tale of my “near-death” bicycle memory.  I was about nine-years-old.  I don’t remember whether I was riding home from school or just out for a “cruise”.  I was at the corner of Washington Street and 26th Avenue in Hutchinson, Kansas, riding south.  The intersection was not regulated by stop or yield signs.  Unseen by me, a panel delivery truck was approaching the intersection from my right.  We collided.  I have no memory of being struck.  When I came to, several strangers, including the truck’s driver, were bending over me looking quite concerned.  Apparently, I had struck my forehead on the curb.


To say I was lucky would be an understatement.  The driver must have slammed on his brakes in time to slow to a great degree.  I was able to ride my bike home.  I have no memory of seeing a doctor or even informing my parents, although I believe they did receive a phone call from the police.  I’m sure my mother was relieved to know that I required no care from her.

© 30 May 2016 

Part 2 

[Because the chosen topic for today, “Public Places”, carries very little resonance with me and my story from last week on the subject of “Bicycle Memories”, while focusing on my “near death experience” on a two-wheeled conveyance, omitted two other two-wheeled adventures that, while less serious, are nevertheless forever emblazoned in my memory.  Taken together, they offer a clue to as why I have not sat astride a bicycle for nearly ten years now.]

The first misadventure took place in August of 2001.  My late husband, Laurin, and I were fond of taking bike rides around our neighborhood in Dearborn, MI.  On this occasion, we were heading back to our apartment building on a public sidewalk when I took a spill.  I can’t remember the exact cause.  I only had a slight scrape but it shook me up enough that I walked my bike the last three blocks home.

Within a few days, we were on our way to Montreal for the Gay Pride Day Parade.  We hung our new bike rack on the decklid of our car crossing our fingers that everything would remain secured for the entire journey.  Having arrived without incident, we thought it would be fun to drive our car to the top of Mt. Royale and ride our bikes down the long, steep hill.  It wasn’t long before we had attained a high enough speed that I noticed that all was not right with my front wheel.  It had a noticeable wobble.  I nearly lost control.  I had no choice but to walk my bike to the bottom of the incline.  The street there was lined with shops and I was lucky to find a bicycle shop nearby.  Within a couple of hours, all was fixed but the seed of doubt had been planted once again that perhaps bikes and I just don’t get along.  (Some of you may remember the story I told a year or so ago about being cut off by another boy as a novice bike rider and sailing head-over-handle bars into a ditch where I cut my forehead on a rock and ended up with an allergic reaction to the old horse-derived tetanus serum.)

But the “Bicycle Memory” to top them all occurred ten years ago almost to the day.  Laurin and I were simply going out for a nice, easy pleasant ride around Capitol Hill.  We needed to air our tires, as they had gotten rather low in storage.  We stopped at the Conoco station at 8th Ave. and Downing.  They must have had two air hoses because I remember both of us filling our tires simultaneously.  I had just completed the job when I heard a loud “BLAM”.  Laurin had over-inflated one of his tires and it had blown out.  So, we took turns riding my bike and walking his to Turin Bicycles at 7th Ave. and Lincoln St.  The blow-out had bent the rim on his bike and they needed a day to make the repairs.  We headed toward home with just my bike.  I rode a few blocks down 7th Ave. and then offered my bike to Laurin.  In those days, 7th Ave. sidewalk crossings were not graded for the handicapped.  For some reason--perhaps related to his incipient but undiagnosed Parkinson’s--Laurin did not stop in time and ran into the rather high curb.  He ended up flying over the handlebars and now my bike, too, had a bent rim.  My visions of what the guys at the bike shop would say or think haunted my every step on the return trip.

Well, they were very diplomatic about showing any disbelief or contempt (after all, we were now repeat customers).  The walk home was very long but we both saw the funny side of the entire affair.  I was extremely relieved that Laurin was hardly scratched from his fall.  Later, with both repairs having been completed, we immediately set about finding a buyer for the bikes from Hell.  From then on, we would trust our lives to walking shoes, which are guaranteed never to blow out or get bent.

© 5 Jun 2016 

About the Author 

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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