Epic Moments From My Life as a Veloist • 1951-1959

My very first memory of bicycles was when I couldn’t have been more than three or so. My father had, like most soldiers from the beginning of human history, brought home some ‘things I found’ - loot - from Europe, one being a bare-bones French touring bike.     And I remember him hoicking me up onto a small red cushion or pad fastened to the top of the handlebar stem, facing forward, knees and feet dangling in front of the bars, and holding me with one hand as we rode around in whatever neighborhood it was. I felt like I was flying. It was wonderful, and I'm so grateful I was able to experience it, because now of course he and my mom would have been arrested   on child endangerment charges and put in a home with padded walls and no candy and certainly no comic books or rock n' roll music.

   When I was about five years old. The old man planted me on the seat of a miniature two-wheeler in the middle of a big front lawn       of thick grass, showed me how to grip the handlebars and put my sneakers on the pedals, and gently pushed me on my way. When I   fell almost immediately, I don’t recall that it was any big deal – the grass cushioned it and the ones that followed, and before much time had passed I was happily wobbling all over the place. (1)

   At twelve, while going down at a hill at too high a speed, I lost my balance and ended up on my stomach sliding across the asphalt, hands and arms stretched out before me like a swimmer, for about twenty feet. Long sleeves and jeans managed to protect me from everything except some vivid bruises, but my palms were badly scraped, and after they healed a tiny piece of stone remained embedded at the very base of my right hand. It remained there         for another forty years, a reminder to me that being a smart ass -     on a bike or otherwise - doesn't usually pay off. (2)


(1) A perfect example of life to come: While learning, you fail; failing, you pick yourself up off the deck and try again; repeat as needed until you succeed. Little did I realise what I was in for.

(2) This was before helmets, knee-pads, gloves. It was also   before whining to your parents and friends. I picked myself up and limped home and cleaned my wounds. Other than one of my brothers asking me what had happened - we had an almost ghoulish interest in each other’s misfortunes – it was not remarked upon.