Bicycles. One of mankind's greatest inventions. You never forget your first. And by that I mean the first one that was your own and you learned to ride with no training wheels. When I was really young, Grandpa Watkins got me started on this really small, white and pink, kid sized (ages 2-5) bike with training wheels. I zipped all over his driveway on that thing for hours on end. While it was one of the first bikes I did ride, it wasn't full sized and the training wheels never came off. The bike I truly claim as my first as it became my very own, was a sleek black with gray splotches Huffy bike. A one-speed with no hand brakes and colorful plastic spoke clips, it quickly became my most prized possession. I still had not mastered the art of a two-wheeler, but by the age of 6, that was all about to change.
Huffy bikes were all the rage in the 90s amongst kids. If you had one, you were doing something right. Having one was only half the equation. To be cool, you had to be able to ride them without the "baby wheels" as we called them. So one summer day, my 6 year-old self decided it was time to ditch them. I'm pretty sure I asked my mother to remove them. Then, with the luxury of a big yard, I pushed the bike a distance until I was comfortable enough to hop on. Once I finally did, I pedaled like mad to keep from falling. It didn't take long to become comfortable with riding without the fear of toppling of in some horrific crash.. Now stopping was another matter entirely. With hand brakes not being a thing for one-speeds, there were three ways to stop the bike. 1) Pedal backwards so the gears locked and kept the back tire from rotating anymore (easiest). 2) Drag your dominant foot on the ground to cause enough resistance to get the bike to stop (Took some skill). 3) Crash (most painful). I employed all three of these methods and for the longest time, the foot dragging method was my brake of choice. Some of the problems that occurred with such a method were that my shoes would wear out faster, my foot occasionally got caught on natural debris, and sometimes I was going way too fast that attempting this method would almost always get overruled by method three. This was all part of the learning process and the only thing that mattered was that I could now ride a two-wheeler like the cool kids.
With no phones, no internet, no video games (parents didn't let us have them at the time) and a big yard, bikes were our go-to entertainment option. If you know us by now and have been following this blog for awhile, you'll know that simply riding them was not enough. We had two major forms of excitement with bicycles which were racing and stunts. We utilized a large chunk of the land as an imaginary racecourse. Our starting point was always the white gravel road at the very end of the woods that led to the country club's maintenance garage. There was a large enough clearing through the trees that we raced through, which eventually led to a small in stature but long in length, hill. One had to clear this hill in order to continue the course. Upon doing so, we then raced by the male mulberry tree and down a bigger hill by the house. The final stage consisted of racing around the house, across the narrow strip of grass between the house bushes and the front bank, across the gravel driveway, stopping by the little brown shed. This course may have seemed long, but was usually over in a matter of minutes. It designed to be exciting, but also a bit dangerous. Why? First, the mini hill. It was really small yes, but if one had enough speed, it became a ramp and going airborne was quite common. While the hill was long, our clearance wasn't much. On the left was a large pile of dead wood that would get piled up there over the year. To the right was a large tree and then the shed directly behind it. We had plenty enough space to get between the sticks and the shed, but imagine racing four to five other people trying to hit that clearance. It did not always end well. The next dangerous spot was down the second hill and the first turn around the house. At this point, our speed picked up dramatically and if we weren't in control, we either wiped out on the turn or potentially collided with the house. There were two more risky spots. The patch of grass between the bushes and the bank was so narrow that only one bike could get through going one way. If you clipped the bushes or slid off the side of the bank, you were in for a tumble down it into the street. Immediately after that strip was the gravel driveway which had a bank on either side. Depending on your speed, it became another mini ramp with dangerous loose gravel that caused a handful of wipeouts. This was our racing course. And from mid spring to early fall, it was a staple in our everyday adventures as kids.
I also mentioned that we did "stunts". Our favorite spot to attempt them was that first mini hill which was big enough to get us airborne. Zach, Tim, and I would occasionally hold competitions to see who could get the most air and who could land the furthest. As Nathaniel became older, he eventually joined as well. Each of us would take turns starting all the way up at the white gravel road. We would then pedal as hard and fast as we could to get enough speed going into the hill. Then it was up to fate how high and far we went when we hit it. Being the little daredevils that we were, we'd sometimes change the course to go over the right side of the hill instead of the left. That part of the hill was a bit higher, but it also landed us on the concrete pavement between the picnic table and the shed. After that, there wasn't much distance to stop before we found ourselves in the gravel driveway and then running the narrow grass strip by the house. Going this was was tricky and any minor mistake could cost us. There were some pretty dynamic crashes.
Two of my most horrific spills came from when I was jumping the mini hill by myself. I was getting in practice runs for when I took on Zach and Tim in the future. I casually rode my Huffy up to the white gravel road. I faced the bike towards the hill, paused, took a long, cool breath, and then took off. I pedaled as if the devil himself was chasing me. Because I was going so fast, I was losing a bit of control and the walnuts and sticks crunching underneath my tires were throwing off my preferred course. By the time I reached the mini hill, I knew it was going to be close on clearance, but it was too late to stop now. I flew up the hill cleanly and was airborne. I knew my landing point was going to be extremely close to the shed, but there was nothing I could do but hope I missed it. The bike hit the ground hard and the jolt was enough to turn the front tire slightly to the right. BAM! The front tire clipped the edge of the shed, spun the bike sideways, and launched me to the left. I tumbled a short distance away from the bike. Then I collected my scrambled senses and checked myself out. Saw I had a few minor scrapes but nothing more. I checked my Huffy and saw that she was still in excellent shape. After walking away from a crash like that, I did what any young boy my age would do...go again. The second crash came much later and ended up creating a chain of events I was not expecting. I decided once again that I was going to try and catch massive air, but this time, I was going to attempt the risky route of splitting the shed and the picnic table. Once again I began my approach from the white gravel road. And once again, I sacrificed my control for speed. I had made this jump many times before, but this time for a reason unbeknown to me, I was approaching the hill too far to the right. I flew up it and achieved more air than I had even acquired before and I was flying. But my adrenaline rush turned to horror as I saw where I was going to land. Both wheels slammed upright on the concrete pavement followed by the front wheel colliding head on with the two cinder blocks that held up the right side of the bench for the picnic table. I was once again launched off my bike. Like the previous crash, I was able to walk away fine, but the picnic table wasn't so lucky. The top cinder block fell and cracked in two on the pavement. The bench was flung into the table, which toppled over the other bench and rolled down the slight incline, severely damaging it. To be fair, both the table and benches were old and rickety which is why they got pulverized by my collision. The destruction of the picnic table eventually led Mom to sending me (and Tim) with Al one day to build another one, but that's a tale for another time.
I wasn't the only one who had my fair share of crashes. I remember one in particular involving Tim, Zach, and I. It was a late Autumn evening and it was nearly dark. We decided to have a jumping competition. We each took turns racing our bikes down through the woods and up over the hill. Everyone was making clean jumps. So we decided to make it more interesting. We began making the hill "higher" How? By collecting a bunch of bark and slowly piled it on top of the hill. We took turns to see who could clear the highest pile. At one point, Zach and I were on the edge of the hill adding more bark onto the pile. I then stuck a tiny stick behind the pile for support, even though it wasn't really doing anything. Not known to us, Tim had began to make his run. Zach and I were still on the edge of the hill, making the clearance even smaller. I turned my head at the last second to see Tim come flying onto the hill. The next thing I knew, he was sideways in the air, tangled in his bike, and in a weird superman-like pose. He ended up landing on his stomach with the bike mostly on top of him. How it happened, I can only speculate. Maybe he thought he was going to hit us and bailed. Maybe he didn't think he was going to clear the pile and tried to miss it causing him to lose control. Or maybe he lost control in the air. Whatever the cause, he managed to get up with nothing more than the wind knocked out of him.
While the stunt course was our secret pleasure, racing was where it was truly at. Anywhere from 2-8 bikes at anytime were at the starting line (that's how many could fit fairly). Any neighborhood kids that brought their bikes over would get involved. We'd race each other all summer long and sometimes deep into the fall. Even three year old Stephen would race at times even though he never had a shot at winning. Zach had the best bike and being a little older, he usually ended up winning unless something dramatic happened. One time after losing to him three times in a row, I was determined to beat him. Upon go, I pedaled with all my might. I actually had a tire length on Zach, but he was keeping real close. Suddenly, he shrinks lower to the ground and I hear a loud OOF. I blow by him and turn my head back to see him topple off the bike. I kept going and finished the course victorious. Upon my triumphant finish, I went back to see what happened. Zach was pushing his bike back to the shed. Apparently he pedaled so hard, he snapped a pin in the chain, causing it to fall off the gears and caused him to wreck. Seeing he was okay, I still soaked in the moment that I had finally beaten him. Another time Zach and I had a one versus one race. Zach smoked me pretty good. Determined to finish the course, I turned the corner on the house and to my surprise, saw Zach way off course and part-way down the hill. He was standing by his bike, but not going anywhere. He motioned me to come over. I started laughing. He had on a pair of those ever popular baggy jeans and one of his pants legs was caught in his gears. I had to go into the house and grab a wrench to help pry him loose. This became a common site if we wore baggy jeans while riding a bike.
My love for bike racing and winning took me on a path to attempt to beat everyone who rode a bike. I had taken care of Zach, Tim, Nathaniel, Stephen, and even Maggie and Katherine. But there was one person I had not beaten because she didn't race with us much. That person was Sarah. So one night, she and I had finished eating dinner before everyone else. I asked her if she'd race me one on one. To my surprise she agreed. So we went outside, got our bikes, and took them up to our usual starting point. I called out 3-2-1 go! And we were off. It wasn't long before I put some distance on her. So much so in fact that I made it down and around the house and she was nowhere to be seen. Upon being victorious, I rode my bike back around the house to see where she had gone. I arrived just in time to see her come barreling down the hill by the male mulberry tree. Then I stood there shocked as I saw her lose control and slam into the side of the house. I ran over to see if she was okay and thankfully she was. Her bike was still in mostly good shape, but there was a tire imprint on the house that remained there until the day we moved. That was my first and last race against Sarah as she unsurprisingly didn't want to race me ever again.
Fall races were more challenging as there were a number of rough elements in play. The cold sting of the crisp Autumn air or our faces, the extra nature debris from leaves, sticks, and walnuts, and our own element where we found out that if you threw a walnut hard enough at a rotating bike tire, they would get caught in the spokes. During those races, one or two of us not racing would hoard a pile of walnuts, pick a spot along the course, and wait for the racers to come by so we could unload on their tires. Most of the time the walnuts either harmlessly fell off via the tire's rotation or landed perfectly to avoid any other bike components. However, every once in a while, a walnut would get lodged just right and jam the tire between the spokes and the fork, causing the front tire to seize up. There are no colorful crashes I can recall from these antics, but I'm sure some occurred.
Somewhere between the age of 10 and 11, I received a brand new, sleek blue, Pacific mountain bike for my birthday. I was ecstatic. I still loved my Huffy to death, but I was out-growing it. I retired the Huffy to our shed where it spent most of its time, only to be ridden on rare occasion. The Pacific, was flashy. It had 12 speeds, hand brakes for both front and rear wheels, and I could pedal backwards without causing the bike to stop. She was fast, she was smooth, and she was all mine.
Like the Huffy before her, the Pacific went through some harrowing moments caused by my own ineptitude. The first came when I was testing her out on the mini hill. On one run, I gained way more speed than I was used to. Right before I hit the hill, I panicked and squeezed hard on the hand brake for the front tire. Suddenly, the front screeched to a hard stop and the momentum from the back launched me over the front of the bike. As I hit the ground, the bike tumbled over top of me. I learned a valuable physics lesson that day. It taught me to clutch the rear hand brake first and then ease into the front brake if necessary. Another day I was testing the bike out on our normal racing course. I went clockwise around the house as was normal. But as I turned upon the narrow grass strip, there was Tim flying at me from the oncoming direction. I grabbed the brakes, but Tim and I still managed to collide head on. I kept control of my bike and used the bush for support, but poor Tim tumbled down the side of the bank. At the exact moment it happened, our parent's friend Ned had just pulled up in his car and witnessed the whole thing. We heard a loud "Wow!" and an "Are you okay?" Thankfully we both were fine. The worst crash with my Pacific came when my parents finally let me ride the bike in the street. I was allowed to go up to the fire station (about a block beyond the white gravel road) and ride from there to our driveway. Going in that direction, it was all downhill. The reason the driveway was the cut-off point was because beyond that was the country club entrance and exit. My parents didn't want me crossing them as cars coming in and out probably wouldn't have seen me. I made this run a handful of times no problem. But then I started to go faster and brake a little later. It was pure thrill. Then, during one fateful run, I was going faster than I should've and I over-shot the driveway. I didn't want hit the brakes fearing a wipeout in the street and a lot of scrapes and cuts, so I made a hard turn which took me up the bank in front of our house. The bank and my speed launched me incredibly high into the air and with nowhere else to go, my bike and I slammed into the corner of the house. My mom heard the collision from inside and came out to see what had happened. Not wanting to show her I was hurt, I got up and tried to hide my limp as I walked away. Once I regained composure, I saw I had taken a small chunk of skin out of my right knee. The rain gutter on the corner was dented. I also bent the fork on my bike. That was the first time I ever damaged a bicycle where it needed repairs. I faked my injuries enough to get into the bathroom and bandage up my knee by myself. As for the Pacific, Grandpa Watkins and Uncle Randy took it and replaced the fork. No longer did it match her blue hue, but was now a silver gleam on the front. It served as a constant reminder how lucky I was once again to walk away with nothing more than a cut or two. The limp wasn't serious and went away within a couple days. But what a ride that was.
My Huffy and Pacific were two of the greatest gifts I'd ever received. I rode them fearlessly, endlessly, and crazily for as long as I had them. My childhood and the experiences I gained during those years wouldn't be the same without them. These were some of the tales of a Boy and his Bike.
