Back in the days when I could
legitimately say I was young – somewhere this side of the Mesozoic
era – my “Leave it to Beaver” neighborhood rejoiced with the
sounds of kids. There were many in the streets around me, and the
shouts and taunts and laughter emanating from us all provided a
steady soundtrack to our lives. Oftentimes, it was street games of
various sorts that would raise the ambient decibel levels, but just
as frequently it would be the incessant chatter one would hear as
groups of kids on bikes would streak through the neighborhood. Kids
would be on their way to other kids' houses to play, or perhaps be
riding to pick-up baseball or football games, or maybe just a casual
sortie down to our local store to pick up a pack of baseball cards
or, perhaps, a candy bar. But, my participation in these events was
limited. I did not own a bike.
I wanted one, of course. It would have
provided me with a level of social acceptance which I dearly would
have loved. It would have enabled me to become one of the group and
to participate first hand rather than as just a drop-in on those
sporadic occasions when I would walk to ball fields or the store and
catch up with the others. The reason I did not own a bike was not a
mystery to me, but it was no more satisfying knowing the reason. My
mother made it known to me that I would never own a bike because of
the sadness she still harbored from a point in her life long past.
In her youth, her younger brother had been killed in a cycling
accident, and, understandably, that loss left an indelible mark on
her – one that would give life decades later to an indomitable fear
of having a son who would be out on the streets facing, in her mind,
constant mortal risks. My mom was upfront about all this. She fully
conceded that her fears were irrational and overblown by the power of
memory and time. But, the bottom line was no bike for me. End of
discussion.
My best friends, Leah and Greg, both
had bikes. They knew of my desires and encouraged me to try riding
their bikes on the street in front of our houses. But, my efforts
were hopeless. Once I was finally able to get rolling, I had no clue
how to steer, let alone stop before I faced an inopportune obstacle
like a tree, a street curb, or a fire hydrant. I still recall
rolling down the gentle slope of Ogden Avenue, gaining speed, and
having no idea how my ride might finish. As if in surrender, I would
take my feet off the pedals and let the bike go where it wanted. It
controlled matters, not me. I felt equal pangs of exhilaration and
terror. My screams, I'm sure, could be easily identified with either
emotion. Most frequently, my brief rolling adventures would end with
me involuntarily grabbing the trunk of a tree I had just
unceremoniously crashed into, or would end with me laying prone on a
neighbor's front lawn after a curb had insidiously intersected my
path and thrown me clear of my ride. My mother knew none of this.
We now flash forward several decades.
I have had an absolutely wonderful life but it has been virtually
bike-free. I am now Medicare eligible and am ready to take on life's
new challenge: to successfully ride a bike. That is to say, to
complete a ride without serious injury or worse. Yes, I have had a
few misshapen adventures with bikes over the years, none of them
ending well. I have a clear memory of the bruises and indignities
that have served only to reinforce my logical side that I should
consider other pursuits, ones less grounded in the needs for balance
and sharp reflexes.
But, I have a specific reason to turn
my attention to this decades-old mission of mine. We have a trip
planned to Tuscany this summer and our stay will be in Lucca, a
fabulously charming old walled city. Atop the walls is a park,
complete with greenery, folks strolling with young children, and
animated bocce games. Best of all, you can rent bikes and
circumnavigate the city from above taking in all the wonderful sights
of the park and the city below. But, as I sit here now, I am
seriously ill-equipped to even think about doing this aboard a bike
lest I have an unscheduled run-in with a bocce participant or,
perhaps, a turret.
For this reason, I have acquired a
bike. It's a basic beach cruiser – no gears or other
paraphernalia that might mistake it for serious hard-charging wheeled
pursuits. But, it is a bike and, as is true for all bikes, it must
be ridden with balance and without the wobbling and tentative
decision-making that is my current signature for this activity. I
bought a helmet. Smart. Now that I have learned which end of the
helmet faces which part of my skull, I feel oddly protected.
Fortunately, our community is relatively deserted this time of year
which means I can wobble my way down neighborhood streets without an
ever present fear that I might have to dodge oncoming car traffic or
innocent civilian pedestrians. With each episode out on the streets,
I constantly remind myself of the helpful advice given to me by Lily
and others: look up, don't look down at the wheels, and when
attempting to turn, lean into the turn with my body, not a turn of
the front wheel. Sounds easy, right? In the two days that I have
ventured out to ply my new craft, I have only crashed twice. One
incident was entirely my fault, but the other was clearly due to a
tree that rudely got way too close to me.
On to Tuscany, I say. Just please do
me a favor and don't alert my insurance carrier. I'd appreciate it.
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