Back in the day, I rode a snazzy pink number with a huge white banana seat and streamers flowing off the handlebars. I sat straight up, supported by a high backrest better suited for a Harley, as my helmet-less head bopped along to the rhythmic sound of the clicker attached to my back tire, which announced to the neighborhood that I was out on a roll.
We barely used kickstands, as the parking method of choice was ‘ditch and run’, and our bikes easily withstood the punishment we put them through. Flats were rare as the tires were so fat they look like they were taken off a monster truck and we could ride over nails and glass with no worries. In fact, we’d often leave the imbedded object stuck in the tire for the extra click it delivered with each rotation.
There was no fear of theft, as everyone’s bike was easily identifiable thanks to thoughtful customization like baskets on the front, bright plastic piping on the spokes and customized license plates- also useful for identifying who had beaten you to the penny candy store.
Learning to ride was as simple as balancing without training wheels, as there were no gears or gimmicks; just pedal to ride, back pedal to brake. But even these basic skills would be perfected for hours on the basketball court where we would practice riding with no hands, popping a wheelie, riding while standing on your seat, balancing your friend on the handlebars, and seeing who could create the longest skid mark.
Parents didn’t plan their summer days around giving kids rides, as everything was biking distance. Each morning, I’d jump on my banana bike and ride my free flowing locks to the playground to meet the camp counselor who had all sorts of activities waiting for me, including creating such parental presents as gimp comb holders for dad and pot holders made out of fabric loops for mom. Often I’d wear my bathing suit in case I decided to take a plunge at Collins Cove or Dead Horse Beach, after which I’d jump back on my bike and blow dry myself as I cruised to my next stop.
But bike riding today is not nearly as carefree as it used to be.
Getting ready to ride can take longer than the ride itself, as I suit up with special shoes that fit the special lock-in pedals, padded bike shorts, gel gloves and a government approved safety helmet, appearing ready to compete in the Tour de Salem.
I glide along silently, my torso stretched out almost flat, precariously perched on a tiny seat that barely fits my butt cheeks, trying to figure out why I need 21 gears and two sets of brakes when I was perfectly happy with none. My fragile tires worry me, as I ride equipped with a flat tire changing kit, portable tire pump and cell phone.
Stopping to do an errand is a project, as ditch and run is not an option with a bike that cost you a month’s salary. So you not only need to find a bike rack for secure parking, you also need to remove your quick release front tire and lock it to the frame and back tire using a wire cutter resistant lock that weighs more than the bike itself.
But for all that has changed, some things remain the same. Cruising along, I remember how much of the city you can take in during a ride, exploring neighborhoods you’d never find by car or foot. And there is a peacefulness to biking that is very different from the punishing pounding of running.
But these pleasant thoughts are cut short when I spy a patch of thick mud in front of me and instinctively back pedal to brake as my front tire gets locked up in the gunk, wobbles sideways and ditches unexpectedly. The adult in me does a quick assessment of injury and comes up with only a skinned elbow and scraped knee, while the kid in me whispers underneath my government approved bicycle safety helmet “Awesome ditch…I’ve still got it!”
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