A Bicycle Built for Me

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Do kids still ride Stingray bikes anymore? Probably not, because I’m not sure they even make 'em now.

 

But for me, riding that bike as a kid was like having a get-out-of-jail card; allowing me the freedom to get out from underneath parental oppression, if only for awhile, and look really cool doing so. Mine was blue, had the classic banana seat, and playing card clipped to the spokes, creating an awesome purr from the back tire that practically screamed to anyone watching, “I am SOOO cool” The bike was small, too, like me, and easy to maneuver. So I could go anywhere any of the bigger kids went and often got there quicker. Gosh I loved that bike. That Ignaz Schwinn dude really knew what he was doing. Stingray’s ruled. I thought my Stingray was the best bike ever built.

I popped big wheelies and rode all around the neighborhood; to my friends’ houses, to school, to the tree house in the field where Birdcage Walk Mall now stands, or the Madison Avenue 7-11 for a pack of baseball cards or an Icee. Peddling everywhere on that bike, a swift and steady rider, too, my safety record was almost impeccable. I said, almost.

 

One after school on a warm March day, my friend Teddy Shea and I were racing each other down the hill where Longwood and Kingswood Drives intersect. We’d done this a gazillion times without incident and I never expected otherwise. But this day, Teddy’s bike cornered right, as always, and stayed upright. Mine didn’t. It struck the curb head on and flipped me.

 

Even so, I’d gone fill tilt into a curb plenty of times and nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened. But this time, when the bike accelerated from flat surface to sidewalk, the curb acted as a spring board and catapulted the bike into the air. With nothing to do but hold on, I watched helplessly as the front wheel detached itself from the frame just before the bike- now minus one wheel- smashed hard and fast back to Earth. The jarring impact propelled me over the handle bars and onto somebody’s driveway, where I landed in a head-first somersault and rolled twice before coming to rest on my stomach. 

 

It all happened in a flash. But as I flew through the air hoping to defy gravity, time seemed to move in slow motion, like being in a bad martial arts movie. It wasn’t long enough to see my life to pass before my eyes, though. I was only 9. Nothing much to see. Of course, I might’ve come down wearing a helmet, elbow and shin guards, too. But I wasn’t. Growing up during the pre-historic days when kids were allowed to play outside without 20 extra pounds of padding, layering myself in a bunch of extra equipment wouldn’t have crossed my mind. Ever. I’m not even sure bike stores sold stuff like that. The only protection I had on that day was a pair of blue jeans, a t-shirt and my Red Ball Jets.

 

Nevertheless, when the shock passed and I was able assess the damage, I found I’d survived the mishap just fine. Well, mostly. I had two scraped knees and both hands were cut and bruised and had the wind knocked out of me, too. My head felt okay, even though it’d bounced on contact when I hit the pavement. At least it was still attached. There was a bump over my eye, too. But I wasn't dead. And too scared to cry, I slowly stood up and took deep breaths till my heart rate slowed and the stars orbiting my vision went away.

 

Teddy was half way down the block and hadn’t even seen it happen. Swell. I take this huge awesome header and my buddy didn’t know anything was wrong until he turned around and saw me sprawled out on the pavement. He did quickly return and expressed genuine concern. But dusting me off and surveying all the damage, he agreed nothing was broken except the bike. Teddy collected the detached wheel- which landed about fifty yards away in a flower bed- and together he and I walked the busted bike the three blocks back home. The whole time, I think I was more upset about my injured Stingray than any of my own.

 

We stowed the bike in Teddy’s garage and, to explain my nicks and cuts, I told Mom I fell climbing a tree. She still got mad at me. But that was better than telling her I may have trashed my 25 dollar bike. And the next day, Teddy and I set about making repairs. The frame had to be hammered back in and 2 screws were missing. But his old man had a zillion screws of a zillion different sizes and after an hour of searching and sifting, we found ones that fit. Reattaching the tire, we took the bike out for a test spin- first me, then Teddy. It rode like new. And Mom and Dad were none the wiser.

 

I had that bike till high school. Five more years. And sometimes, when my inner child is yearning again to be unleashed, I wish I still did.