C'mon in. Make yourself comfortable. Can I put on the kettle? I'm a little nervous, introducing you to the family like this. Mom? No she's not here...what are you talking about? No it's not like that. I mean, I like you well enough. But I'm not introducing you to my mom and dad. No, it's not about you. But this is a bicycle blog.
When you mention it, I'm not sure me father had ever ridden a bicycle. Pa (yeah, that's what I called him, just like on Little House on the Prairie) grew up not just poor but dirt poor. Grandfather Autrey mined coal, lived in the company town, and died with the company's coal dust clogging up both lungs. He carried a walking stick made of spring steel--it would bend right over if you leaned on it, and break a rib or a shinbone with a flick of the wrist. If they'd had enough money for a bicycle, they'd have bought coffee and meat first.
The war saved them though. Thirty million people died bringing Adolf and Tito to heel, but war fixed my family's problems. Grandfather, Grandmother, and all five kids trekked from south Alabama to metro Atlanta, for jobs in an army boot factory. When the boys turned 17, they joined the Marines, because the Corps will take you a year younger than the other services. One girl, Melba, died young, of something probably related to her various birth defects. Helen got a job at the bomber factory, and climbed the corporate ladder. She spent a lifetime lunching with the ladies and driving new Cadillacs. The boys used the GI Bill when they got home, my dad learning to fix commercial refrigeration units. Their folks got to retire, not for long before their health failed, but in a house they owned and in a town with more than one landowner.
Helen drove a Cadillac, Pa drove a Chevy pickup with all the engine options. It's the way of poor folks who make good. They were tired of making do and didn't want their kids to scratch and scrabble either. So in spring of 1974, when my tenth birthday rolled around, it was decided that I needed a new seat for my bike.
Like Ceasar, the dog whisperer who believes that there are no bad dogs, I maintain a generally high opinion of bicycles; but I've never owned or even known one with fewer redeeming features than my ride. It was a Stingray knockoff, bought originally at Sears and passed to me by a neighbor. Fenders were long gone, the tires were worn to the cord, and it rode as though made of lead. The giant chainring gave it a theoretical high speed, but I couldn't ride up the one hill on my dead end street. The purple glittery vinyl saddle had long ago split its seams and been mummified in duct tape. I didn't hate it. But it was useless--unlovely and unworkable.
When Pa suggested we get a new seat for my bike, I knew better than to demure. We are old south, and we know the value of good manners. But I couldn't get excited, because that bike needed more than a saddle. The previous owner had rattle-canned it several times, each one worse than the last, and the finish resembled Jackson Pollock in his rust and shit period. A new saddle would be a waste of a new saddle. Not to mention the waste of a perfectly good birthday.
But Sis and I piled into Pa's pickup with him. I got the window seat and the seatbelt, what with it being my birthday, and we rode to a Schwinn shop on West Paces Ferry. We walked in and the shop man rolled out a yellow Sting Ray. Pa spoke. "You like the seat on that bike/" "I guess." "Well go over there and look at the name on that bike." I read the tag on the top tube--my name.
The Krate era had slipped past a little before, when a few little boys had ripped their scrotums on top tube mounted Stik-Shifts. (Bad spelling was part of the allure.) The Apple Krate, Grey Ghost, Pea Picker, and Lemon Peeler had withered to just the yellow Sting Ray. A single Huret thumbshifter hung above the right handgrip, and controlled a Schwinn-approved derailleur and a five speed freewheel.
I didn't learn proper shifting until the next bike, but I did learn a few other things. I learned how to keep a chain lubed, and to pick the grease off the tension pulleys with a screwdriver. I got a speedometer and learned to covet the miles, riding endless laps to the dead end and back. (I had no trouble with the hill now.) I learned to use my front brake, and to trust both of them. I learned to wake up early and ride before the sun got angry.
When I started this post, I'd planned on introducing the bikes in my stable, not because it makes interesting reading, but because I'm missing being with my pack and wanted to think about them. They're just in the garage, or the attic over the garage, but we've been estranged for a while.
I ended up following a different thread back to its source, and got to think about some things that don't come up often. Thanks, Pa.
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