My Introduction

Bicycling started for me at 6 years old. With an April birthday, the weather where I lived was nice enough to get outside around my birthday. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I had been asking for a bicycle. Many of the kids in my neighborhood had bikes. So, a few weeks before my 6th birthday, my Dad and I drove what seemed like an eternity to get to the local Schwinn shop. We looked at many bikes. I remember being overwhelmed with the color selection and styles. Although we didn’t purchase a bike that day, we did come home with a Schwinn catalog.

I looked at that catalog for hours on end. It had every bicycle Schwinn made. If I still had it today, it would surely be a collector’s item. Anyway, early the morning of my birthday my Dad and I drove to the Schwinn shop. That day I became the proud owner of a black Schwinn Skipper, a 20 incher with training wheels and handlebar streamers. I was the proudest person alive. I also remember feeling it was one of the best times I ever had with my Dad.

By Saturday afternoon, I had ridden around the driveway a thousand times. I informed my Dad I was ready to remove the training wheels and be like the others. My Dad counseled me that he didn’t think I was ready. I needed to give it a few weeks. I was six. I wasn’t a baby! What did he know? So, I’m sure against his better judgment, he removed the training wheels.

There was however, one caveat. Dad told me that once the training wheels came off, they wouldn’t go back on. I pleaded that I was ready. I even went to convince my Mom. All she told me was the same Dad had said. “Why don’t you wait, Son?” About 4:00 p.m. I convinced Dad that the training wheels should come off. Off they came. What I didn’t know at the time was that bike riding was an acquired skill not intuitive.

Since we lived on a relatively short cul-de-sac, I knew it would be a breeze to motor down to the end of the street and back. Just like the other kids. My Dad, like any good Dad, had a plan, although unknown to me. He called one of his friends at the other end of street and asked him to step outside to see if I would make it to the other end. Dad propped me up on the bike and gave me a shove. All I remember was hearing him yell, “pedal, Son, pedal” over and over again. Swerving from one side of the street to the other, I made it to the end. I’m sure my eyes were as big as saucers. I will never forget that feeling the first time I rode down the street. Total freedom.

Although I didn’t crash, it was truly beginners luck. The friend at the other end of the street caught me. Turned me around and shoved me in the direction of Dad. I fell. Not deterred, I tried again. I fell again. After trying several tries and several bumps and bruises, I swallowed my pride and walked my bike back home and begged my Dad to put the training wheels back on. He was true to his word; I never saw those training wheels again. Within a week, though, I was riding up and down the street with all my friends.

The summer of 1964, after the first grade, I spent a large majority of my time riding with my friends. We had bike rodeos, bike races; we even had a repair seminar given by one of the 9 year olds. My love for riding had developed quite nicely. As the summer drew to a close, my Dad saw how much I loved riding so he purchased an adult 28” Schwinn bicycle and we rode together many times. I will always remember that summer with my first bike.