Bicycles

It was a late summer afternoon and I was playing in the garage...rummaging through the dusty old tools that the previous owner had left behind. There was a two-handed scythe with a huge curved blade that I had dragged outside and was trying to figure out how to hold...I was about the same size as the tool. It took all my strength to lift it off the gravel driveway...and swinging it was impossible.

I could hear the car coming up the road before I could see it...the rocks on the road pinging off its' underside...then the cloud of dust that kept pace and surrounded it...dust that made my Mom furious...but that's another story. I saw that it was Dad when he turned into the driveway...the light blue and wood Ford station wagon rattling all of its' loose-fitting wooden parts. I dragged the scythe back into the garage and leaned it on the other old tools against the wall and went out to see Dad.



He had a smile on his face when he saw me and turned toward the house, calling for Mom to come outside. He told me he had a present for me!

At this time in our lives, presents were...well...relatively non-existent. I did, certainly, get presents at Christmas and for my birthday...small things...and the dreaded clothes...my Swedish grandmother gave me pajamas and my German grandmother gave me monogrammed handkerchiefs...every single year...but that was it. So a present in the middle of the year for no apparent reason was...well...just exciting as could be!

Mom, wearing a "housedress" and an apron, came out of the back door and walked over to the car where Dad and I were standing. I was still trying to figure out where exactly this present Dad had brought me was hiding. Mom asked Dad what was going on. He told her he had gotten "Chuckie"...my nickname at the time...a special present. Mom was as excited as I was.

Dad walked around to the back of the station wagon...Mom and I following close behind...he lifted the window...I wasn't tall enough to look in though I surely tried...then dropped the tailgate, caught by the two cables that kept it from falling straight down. Dad reached in and pulled the wonderful present out...a beautiful bicycle! I screamed...Mom smiled and said something like "oh my!" but approvingly. "Is it for me" I asked. Dad assured me it was and held it there...for me to look at.

It was an old bike...probably from the 1930's...it was blue with chrome fenders and handlebars...the embossed metal plaque on its' front said "Stutz". The chrome fenders had patches of rust and it was dusty...but it was certainly a beauty! Dad told Mom that he'd gotten it from Mr. Krogness. The Krogness' lived next to Woodhill Country Club on a hill in a beautiful large home (on right) and Dad had worked for them.


Mom thought it was too big for me...it was, after all, a full-sized bike and I was only 7. Dad assured her that it would be fine when he adjusted the seat and handlebars. He left me to hold the Stutz while he went into the garage to find a wrench. I walked the bike around the driveway, onto the lawn and back again, reaching across the center bar to grasp the other side of the handlebars. Dad came back and, with some struggle and a few strong but muffled words, managed to lower both the seat and the handlebars to their lowest positions. He held the bike and had me sit on it to test the success of the adjustments. I could just reach the pedals at the bottom of the stroke. He determined that it was perfect.

"Are you going to teach him to ride it?" Mom asked. Dad said he would. I asked, "when?"...Dad said "Well...how about now?"

Oh my goodness! I was excited and absolutely terrified at the same time...but Dad was there and if he thought I could do this...then I guessed that I could. He held the bike and had me climb up on the seat and put my feet on the pedals. Then he walked beside and a little behind me...one hand steadying my steering, one hand on the rear fender...down the driveway toward Fox Street.

He helped me turn west on the road...him taking his hand off the handlebars now and holding only the rear fender. I wobbled...then...as we began going a bit faster...my steering got steadier and I set a course straight down the middle of the gravel road. Heaven! Smooth, quiet...with only the occasional "pop" as a rock scooted out from under a tire...what a wonderful thing this was!

Then alarm bells went off in my young head! I heard Dad say "You're doing great!"...which was all well and good but the voice wasn't coming from my back fender...it was way, way behind me! That meant...I was on my own!

I absolutely froze on the spot. My feet, which had been dutifully pedaling...stopped...allowing the bike to coast. My hands froze...gripping the Stutz' handlebars as tightly as a seven year old could. I could faintly hear Dad, alarmed now, yelling something like..."keep going"..."steer"...but it was all for naught. Though, to my credit, I didn't tip over...I did steer an arrow-straight course to the side of the road...the south side...that fell off into a deep ditch filled with brush...and over the edge I went...ending in a heap, the blue Stutz on top of me.

Dad rushed to my side and helped me pull the bike back up to the road. He asked me if I was all right and I assured him that I was great. I had ridden my new bike!

By the end of the day, after a few falls, I was riding up and down our long driveway with ease. I could hardly wait til tomorrow!