I saw a group of kids riding bicycles the other day, and I had to stop and smile. It was something I don’t see as often these days. Or maybe I just don’t notice it. Regardless, there they were, pedaling down the street, talking, laughing and going somewhere that probably didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that they were going there together.
It took me right back to the bicycling days of my youth. I can’t remember the details of my very first bicycle. I am confident it was a hand-me-down from my brother Steve, which was probably a hand-me-down from our brother Brian. I didn’t mind. Hand-me-downs from big brothers were cool — except for those brown plaid pants I inherited from Steve in third grade. Those looked like something straight out of Greg Brady’s closet.
But the bicycle? That was different. I didn’t care about the brand, make or model. I didn’t care about the color or how many gears it had. As long as it had two wheels and could get me from Point A to Point B — and a couple hundred other random points along the way — I was happy.
That bicycle represented something much bigger than a frame, tires and a chain. It represented freedom. For a young boy who had not ventured more than a block or two from home without an adult, that was a big deal. My bicycle took me places I had only visited before from the back seat of Mom’s Chrysler. The swimming pool. The ball fields. The state park. Friends’ houses. The grocery store. Suddenly, the neighborhood was not just the place where I lived. It was a place I could explore.
I imagined myself as Arthur Fonzarelli, except my motorcycle was a bicycle and my leather jacket was a T-shirt with the word “Dyn-o-mite!” and a picture of Jimmy JJ Walker on it. I would “rev” my bicycle down Main Street, convinced I looked incredibly cool with my Shaun Cassidy-like hair blowing in the wind.
Of course, the bicycle also taught me a few lessons. For one thing, bicycles have a way of making you think you are invincible — until your front wheel catches a rut along the edge of a sidewalk. Then gravity introduces itself. I learned that speed was fun. Scrapes and bruises were not.
And, unlike today, helmets were not exactly standard equipment. Back then, the most sophisticated safety system was my big sister yelling, “Be careful!” as I disappeared around the corner.
Looking back, I realize that my bicycle was more than transportation. It was independence. It was adventure. It was the first little taste of adulthood, with considerably less responsibility and considerably more scraped elbows.
That’s why seeing those kids on their bicycles stopped me for a moment. Maybe they were simply riding around the neighborhood. But I knew better. They were going somewhere. And for a few glorious miles, they were free.
Have a great week, and thanks for reading.
Shane Goodman
President and Publisher
Big Green Umbrella Media
shane@dmcityview.com
515-953-4822, ext. 305 | 
