I spent most of my youth living in the country. Unlike parents of today, my mom and dad rarely took me anywhere by car except to church. If I wanted to get somewhere, I either had to walk or ride my bike.
I never owned a new bike until I bought one as a sixteen-year-old — a ten-speed bike. Before that, I rode used bikes, often castaways that needed repairs. For whatever reason, my siblings fared better on the new bike front. I remember how envious I was when my younger brother got a brand-new Schwinn bike with a three-speed shifter, complete with a banana seat and sissy bar.
I rode my bike everywhere: school, work, ball practice, roller skating, fishing, to the park, to the swimming pool, and any place else I wanted to go. My parents rarely asked where I was headed, and I didn’t bother to tell them. On my bike I was free; free from my mom’s manic behavior and my dad’s indifference. By the time I was fourteen, I was on my own, just me and my bike. With a bike you can go anywhere, so I did.
I’ve often wondered if adults in the day felt sorry for that Gerencser boy who rides his bike everywhere, spring, summer, winter, and fall. I do remember being offered car rides by one of my coaches to away baseball games. I added little to the team, so I always appreciated the rides.
As a fourteen-year-old boy, I rode bikes with my friends all over town. One night, around 1:00 am, we rode our bikes downtown. The weather was hot and sticky, a typical summer night in northwest Ohio. We came upon a bar that had its door propped open. None of us had ever been to a bar, so we were curious. Boy, did we get more than we bargained for. Standing on table in the dimly lit bar was a scantily clad dancer, gyrating away for late night patrons. After a few minutes of gorging our eyes with wondrous sights, the bar owner ran us off.
Good times. . .
I have lots and lots of bike stories I could tell, but I want to hear yours. How instrumental was a bicycle to your upbringing? Please share your stories in the comment section.