SEPTEMBER 28, 2021 – When you’re a kid, you view life through a narrow prism. When you’re a geezer, the perspective delivered only by age allows you to see through a wider lens.
Take, for example . . . learning to ride a bike. That rite of passage brought extreme anxiety when I was a kindergartner. In our neighborhood, I was the last to learn to ride—except for my younger sister, who didn’t count.
Every evening Dad tried to teach me to ride, but his frustration was directly proportionate to my inability to discover “balance.” I blamed the bike, which had belonged to Robin Perkins down the street. She was my age but much older: once when we were playing together, she decided impulsively that we should play “church.” “You can be Jesus,” she said, “and I’ll be God.”
Robin now had a schnazzy bike, so her mother gave Robin’s old bike to my mother to give to me as a “learner bike.” It was uglier than sin. I was convinced that its appearance was the cause of my failure.
“If I had a new bike,” I told Dad one evening, “I’d be able to ride.”
Predictably, Dad said, “First, learn to ride. Then I’ll buy you a new bike.”
The idea of being seen on that bike in public was anathema. I confined my attempts at “balance” to the backyard, where the lawn was bumpy and non-conducive to riding a bike. I was determined to learn despite myself. Eventually, I became one with the Wright Brothers. My first few successes each lasted about 10 seconds. The next few rides lasted longer, and soon I rode all the way around the house.
Before Dad came home on the day I discovered “balance,” I’d circled a J.C. Higgins special in the Sears Roebuck catalog. Dad was unimpressed. “We can do better than that, fella,” he said. He went to Western Auto and bought a 16-inch, Evans, painted bright red, with black and white striping. I forgot all about the J.C. Higgins model.
One of my older sisters told me that the Evans was a “convertible,” according to the label around the fork. She was referring to an adjustable crossbar, which could be lowered for girls and raised for boys. I liked the word “convertible,” which is the kind of car our cool uncle owned. What I didn’t appreciate was my sister pointing out that “convertible” on the bike meant it could be a girl’s bike as easily as a boy’s. I scratched “girls” off the label, whereupon my sister said, “Why dja do that? Now your bike looks used.”
But it could never look as used as the one that’d belonged to Robin Perkins. I sold Robin’s old bike to one of the umpteen Larkin kids, who lived in a crowded house up on Benton. I got $5 for it, which was tendered in a church offering envelope.
I’d never held so much money. For a fleeting moment, I felt like . . . God on Sunday.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
