Easy Rider

We were 5-year-old maniacs circling Mr. Droubay’s big driveway at a million miles an hour belting siren noises at the top of our lungs. Playing cops and robbers on our trikes on the sun-drenched concrete—what could ever be better than that?

How about a shiny new two-wheeler? It was navy blue with a bright white banana seat. The handle bar grips—also blue with tiny sparkles—had white plastic tassels that would tangle wildly in the breeze. There was the requisite card and clothespin in the spokes that warned cars and pedestrians that you were on their tail. My bike had training wheels at first, until the big day when Frank decided it was time to take them off. That afternoon, as I sat trying to balance myself in the driveway, Frank (without warning) set me off with a mighty push. This was it folks. There was no looking back.

I flew out of the driveway on to the sidewalk of Pueblo Street and rounded the corner past the Workmans’, the Garcias’ and the Larsens’. I flew around the corner onto Cheyenne Street with my copper penny bangs blowing in the breeze hoping no one would step into my path. Another turn down Wasatch Avenue past the Jensens’ and the Balfours’. Man, I hoped someone was  watching this! One more corner and I headed down the homestretch. Frank hadn’t explained the part about brakes to me and I crashed headlong into our mailbox. I was elated. I could ride a two-wheeler.

Now that I could, I would join my sisters Gail and Mimi on their jaunts to Glendale where we’d visit the Hook and Ladder for french fries. Some days we’d grab a Slurpee from the 7-Eleven which shared its parking lot. On the way home, we’d stop at Grandma Miller’s just to say hello and get a drink from her hose if she wasn’t home.

Glendale was a fun outing, but most of the time we’d spend our days cruising the streets of Poplar Grove, popping wheelies all the way. You could always tell where your friends were by the pile of bikes in the front yards of the popular kids. It seems like that was always Stewart Street where Todd and Kevin lived next door to each other. I’d also venture to Bryan’s house where we’d spend the afternoons listening to Steve Martin albums and vacuuming the floor with his space-aged, in-wall central vacuum system. I’d even ride it a full mile to John’s house. I liked to do that on Sundays because it would take me past the Calvary Baptist church where gospel hallelujah songs were shouted onto Indiana Avenue.

We’d ride our bikes to Quall’s Market even though it was only two blocks away. We’d lean them against the big window at the front of the store and Old Man Bill, the owner,  would come out and yell at us saying that we were going to break the glass. We’d shrug him off and head inside for our RC Colas.

One day, while I was at the store buying my usual Hostess cherry pie, I came out to see the empty space where my bike once was. My heart sank. I frantically walked around the store in hopes that it was only a joke someone was playing. No sign of anything but an old lettuce box by the incinerator. My bike had been stolen. My freedom had been taken away. My life was ruined. 

However, I thought now would be the perfect opportunity to ask Mom and Frank for a new Schwinn Lemon Peeler 5-Speed. That idea was shot down. Frank said we couldn’t afford one but he would come up with something for me. And he did.

He drove up to the Jordan River and fished one of many other stolen bikes from the river’s murky depths. He brought it home and spray painted it green. He also put on new tires and green banana seat to match. An added bonus was that this one had a sissy bar. Ernie Chatwin told me I should turn it into a chopper with fork extenders, but that was a bit too hardass for a kid like me.

Frank instructed me to take it up the street to the fire station where he worked and he would fix me up with a bike license. That way, the police would know it was mine, giving a little kid like me a certain peace of mind. He also gave me money to go to Gibson’s where I could buy a lock. I got one of those combination barrel locks with a chain encased in a rubbery plastic sleeve. Those locks were easy to pick if you had the time or patience—but no kid that I knew of did.

Once all my security measures in place, I was free to carouse the neighborhood again. I’d head to Maltair Lanes, The Arcade Theatre and Sorenson Park where I played Little League. I’d pedal the few short blocks with my mitt slipped onto the handlebars. Sometimes a passenger would perch on the handlebars, too. I’d steer with one hand and carry my bat in the other looking very much like a pint-sized circus act.

The vacant lot across the street was full of sticker weeds and we were always getting punctured tires. That’s when I learned to fix a flat. Flipping the bike upside down, you then had to peel the inner tube from the inside of the tire and submerge it in a bucket of water until you saw the telltale bubbles. After scraping the hole with the spiky metal thing, you’d squirt that intoxicating glue onto the scuffed area and affix the little rubber patch. When it dried, you’d pump it up and you were off to the races. We did this more times than I could count. Mom hated those stickers, too, and set fire to the field one blazing hot day.

A couple of years later, I hit the big time. I became the proud owner of a brand new 10-Speed—a green one. I could barely reach the pedals and had to lower the seat to the very last notch. The bike had white handle bar tape that would constantly come unravelled. This was the bane of my existence and I’d spend about an hour each day rewrapping it. Shifting gears on a 10-Speed was tricky, too, but I managed soon enough. I got to the point where I could ride (even turn corners) with no hands. Short shorts, tube socks and a visor was my riding gear. I was the real deal.

That summer, my friend Doug and I expanded our riding territory. We’d take a spin all the way to Rose Park to hang out with his “not-girlfriend” Susan. We also trekked all the way across town to visit our English teacher, Mrs. Bertagnole. The hills in The Avenues were much tougher to navigate than the flat streets of Poplar Grove. That afternoon, we even had to carry our bikes up a mile-long staircase in City Creek Canyon. It was an exhausting, momentous occasion. Some of our excursions would take us away for the better part of the day. We’d sometimes miss dinner and not get home until sunset. Sometimes when the streetlights came on. Sometimes by the time the stars were out.

Then, in the summer of 1978, I turned sixteen and got my driver’s license, bringing my bicycle era to an end for good. It was now the time for 8-Track tapes and Armor All. I bought a little beater of a car and started a whole new string of adventures to more distant locales resulting in even more questionable behavior—but we won’t go down that road.