Day 5. Wear your helmet!

Someone from the alumni group posted this question. What was the make and model of your first car?

I truly couldn't answer that - not because I didn't remember the car make and model, but because I don't think I really knew. I had purchased it from a friend before I had my license, so it sat in the parking space of the flat that Judy and I shared. 

Judy laughed that the inside smelled like hay and couldn't understand why I spent so much time cleaning it daily when I didn't have a way to move it. Well, she didn't understand until the day that she found my stash of candy bars in the glove compartment.

You see, Judy and I were always on some type of diet and the latest one was extremely harsh. I'm hoping I got this wrong, but it was something like 3 hard boiled eggs for breakfast, cauliflower for lunch, and lamb chops for supper. I found out the hard way that I really didn't like lamb - it made me ill.

Judy couldn't understand how I was making day to day when she was starving. Then she came out to the car to ask me a question while I was cleaning and caught me red-handed.

But truly, that car was never going to be anyone's first anything. It was so old and rusted that once I tried to start it after it had been sitting for so long that I couldn't even get the engine to turn over. Instead of driving it around Cudahy, it ended up being towed away. As a final salute to my expertise in purchasing autos the rear axel broke off and rolled down the alley as they hoisted it with the tow hook.

That question made me think of something else. Until I had been married for a few years and needed a way into work or to haul the kids around, a car was never something that I considered an item to remember. I had a Granada, Mavrick, Escort, Dynasty, and Taurus before I fell in love with my Rav4.

I can, however, tell you about my first bicycle. It was a purple Schwinn Stingray with a banana seat, sissy bar, and tall monkey handle bars. It was a gift for my first communion from my God-parents, the Beckers. I really don't remember much about them. I know they were friends of my parents and lived in Illinois, but beside giving me my best-ever gift I couldn't' tell you much more about them.

My bike was my steed, before it came along my tricycle was my main mode of exploration. I used to pretend that my bike was a horse, and when my dad remarried and we moved to Van Norman Avenue, I used to 'hitch' up my bike to the split rail fence in the front yard. 

I would ride that bike everywhere. It was perfect. Until Judy got a 3-speed bike. It was a hand-me-down and painted white (we think with house paint). I remember pink accents and beige handles, but it was still cool. In my eyes, that bike signified growing up. To be able to ride a bike that tall and break using your hands instead of the way my now lower-class bike (in my eyes) stopped by pressing backwards on the pedals was just the best.

I used to brag to my friends that my bike was the fastest, but now I had competition. My sisters bike had three speeds that allowed you to pedal less but move faster. I coveted that bike. I dreamt about riding it in races with friends and speeding down hills, the wind pushing my hair back on my neck. I could see them cheering me on. Oh the popularity and admiration that my friends would have for me when they saw me riding it. 

I became obsessed.

I lied and told my friends that my sister would let me ride her bike whenever I wanted, and that I was quite good at it. When they asked why they never saw me ride I told them it was because they were never around when she wasn't using her bike.

As fate would have it at that exact moment Judy came riding up on her bike and dropped it in the front yard at my feet. Truth be told, she didn't want me ever touching her bike, but if I took it for a quick ride around the block and put it back where she had dropped it, she would never be the wiser.

Making sure that Judy was in the house, I looked at my friends and said 'see, she left it here for me'. They pushed a little to get me to show them that I could ride it and I caved. 'Ok, watch - I'll ride it around the block' I said. My friend, Kelly G. jumped on the 'luggage' rack over the back tire.

Rule #2 was about to be broken. My dad forbid us from riding double. His brother had almost lost a foot riding double and we had been warned over and over again against this practice. But, I was not strong enough to say I couldn't ride double. Plus, it was even more risky for going down suicide hill with a passenger. 

I'm not really sure how high the hill was, but at the time, when I rode my purple Schwinn down it, I swear it was like I was going down the first dip of an extremely high roller coaster.

I pedaled Judy's bike to the end of the block, turned and then headed down the straight way to the top of the hill. My friends all followed cheering and laughing at my wobbliness. To be honest it was the first time I had ever even mounted the bike. My feet barely hit the pedals and I had no idea how to work the breaks. I guess I had never really thought about stopping. I was too concerned with staying upright. 

My heart was beating out of my chest as I started my descent. My passenger was hanging on for dear life and the front tire was moving back and forth making the ride even more unstable. 

I think I passed about four homes on the block when my passenger chickened out and decided to bail by jumping off the back. This sudden movement twisted back end and I started to careen out of control. 

The last thing I remember was speeding quickly off the sidewalk and towards the road. I felt my butt leave the seat and my body fly over the front of the bike.

When my eyes opened up and I was able to focus again I saw the concerned eyes of my father looking back at me.

He seemed to give a sigh of relief when I said a faint 'hi'. My head was throbbing and my eyes were fuzzy. I couldn't remember how I had gotten in my bed. After a couple of days I asked Kris to fill in the blanks. 

Kris told me that after Kelly jumped off the back of the bike I tried to stop, but since I had never used hand breaks before the bike continued forward. An uneven piece of the sidewalk stopped the front tire and I flew over it and head first into the telephone pole. The majority of friends that were riding with me rode off, afraid they had just seen my death. Kris had rode to our house and found my father who rushed out of the house and to my side. He had picked me up and carried me home.

Judy came and got her now mangled bike and walked it back to the garage. I know if I hadn't been hurt she would have smacked me.

The rest is kind of foggy from there. I know I slept off and on for a couple of days. My head hurt and I had a black eye. I hadn't broken anything and aside from some bruises I was expected to heal up quickly. I was really lucky, it could have been much worse.

A few days later I was back, riding my bike with my friends. Even that tragic death of Judy's bike didn't sour my quest for thrills or keep me from my two-wheeled desire for freedom. 

In those years, no one wore a bike helmet. I'm not proud of it, but to this day I still don't. But my children do.

Some of my favorite memories moving to Oak Creek involve my bike. Riding the 3 miles to Allison's house to play in the soybean fields. Doing laps around Parkway Estates with Arlys, Liz, and Lori. Riding to fish in the creek with Diane and Walter. Riding to swim practice early mornings with Beth, Kim and Laura. 

My bike was my car. I rode it rain or shine, winter and summer.

Riding with Jim, hauling the burley attached to the back wheel.

Riding with the kids up north at Maple Heights Campground.

To this day, whenever I get a chance, I hop on my bike for rides to Andy's or just doing laps around the neighborhood. 

I may not remember that first car - it meant nothing and had no real purpose. But I do remember my first bike. 

Thank you to my God Parents, the Beckers. You have no idea the freedom and memories you have provided.