Bicycles

When I was kid, the closest bicycle store was in Syosset, a small town eight miles away. The owner, Mr. Bresden, was an old, heavyset man with thinning white hair and glasses that were always stationed halfway down his nose. Even as a little kid, I remember thinking there was no way that he knew much about bikes. But, he had a monopoly on bicycle sales in the area so I never bothered to even bring that up in conversation when we were driving there for tire patches, chain repairs or, on the most special occasions, to purchase a new bicycle. Sometimes his son was there, a young man who had a scared face from being in a horrible and mysterious fire. We never knew quite where to look when he was at the counter. Naturally, we were incredibly curious, but we knew enough to know we didn’t want to be caught staring. Sometimes I felt badly for him because we would all leave their store to ride here, there and everywhere knowing he was hidden in that shop, usually fixing bicycles like ours in the back room.

And we did ride everywhere, usually in packs of six, eight or more. On our street, we must have had close to thirty kids . . . seven Petersons, four Hendricksons, three Van Cotts, eleven MacNamaras and a half dozen more families with similar makeups. Every child over six had a bike. My dad made a wooden bicycle rack that was set up deep inside our garage. He was proud of its design and function but he soon became frustrated when he saw we never used it. With every new bike purchased in our family, came a new lock but we never locked them up either. More often than not, you saw them scattered on front lawns, leaning against houses or dumped in the middle of the driveway. We heard each of our parents ask the same rhetorical question, “Do you have to leave those bikes laying in the damn driveway? Someday I am gonna run ‘em over and then you’ll be sorry!” That was when we ran like crazy to move them . . . and dump them on the grass.

Our street was a narrowly paved and curved as it made its way up an impressive hill. They say it was the longest and steepest hill on Long Island and I always wanted to believe that was true. The kids we played with lived in homes close to ours, at the top. So, when other kids in town asked where we lived, we answered, “On top of Capital Heights” and they would say, “Wow! You have to walk all the way up that hill?” And we would answer back by saying, “Walk? Heck! We can ride our bikes up that hill without stopping!” Granted, we zig zagged the whole way, going up four feet with each zig and another four with each zag. But, we did make it to the top. The backside of the hill (a.k.a. Dead Man’s Hill) was shorter and steeper. We developed Olympic swimmer lung capacity on that side since we made several trips to Lucy’s General Store for candy each day.

Our short runs were around town . . . to the park, to the beach, to school, and to the homes of friends who didn’t live on “the hill.” But our long trips were the most fun. We would make a caravan and ride to Sagamore Hill. This was the official name for Teddy Roosevelt’s “Summer White House,” where he raised his six children and it was only four miles away. The road leading there went past the high school on the edge of town. Then it wound its way through the woods, marked by large mailboxes at the end of driveways that were so long, you couldn’t see the mansions that were hidden behind ivy covered, wrought iron fences, brick walls or carefully manicured hedges. Names like Tiffany, Woodward, and Whitney were never visible but the locals knew who lived where. Halfway to Sagamore Hill, was an artesian well that we stopped at as part of our riding routine. We would stick our heads under the stream of clear, ice-cold water that poured out of an ornate fountain. As much water ended up on our faces and shirts as in our mouths. Then we filled our water bottles to the brim because it was simply the best water in the world.

We also rode to the beaver dam that was in the opposite direction of home. Packing bologna sandwich lunches and Yoo-Hoos, we explored the woods and the wetland areas along the side of the pond. We took off our shoes so we could scoop up guppies as they were pushed over the dam in a stream of water. Entire days were spent exploring these neighborhoods that were so distant from our own. No one ever called the police on us. No one ever scolded us. We were just being ourselves and having fun uncovering this little part of the world that we thought was totally our own.

Now, things weren’t always idyllic. There were occasional disasters. One time, Robin and I were riding toward each other and, in trying to avoid a crash, we actually set one up perfectly. It looked like a Keystone Kop movie as we steered our bicycles so erratically that our front wheels wobbled in the worst way possible, as if we were being drawn together like magnets. We both ended up with scraped arms, legs and faces, bleeding and embarrassed. Robin got the worst of it. She landed on a set of discarded wooden doors that someone had piled up on the street for the junkman. Peeling paint, hardware and some exposed nails made for some serious road rash, which kept Robin from riding long after her cuts and scrapes had healed.

Then there was the time when JoAnn and I were riding on the downside of the hill leading to Beaver Pond Road. We were older and more sophisticated then, maybe fourteen. JoAnn was in front of me, pointing out some beautiful flowers that she, apparently, didn’t want me to miss. That was when she missed seeing the mailbox stand that was right in front of her. In a matter of seconds, I saw my best friend become separated from the seat of her bicycle as her upper body found itself suddenly draped over an oversized mailbox that stood at least four feet off the ground. I know this sounds mean, but I could not stop laughing. I did, at one very brief moment, manage to squeak out an “Are you okay?” but I am pretty sure it did not sound particularly sincere. Thankfully, after she lowered herself to the ground and dusted herself off, she saw the humor in it too, especially when she noticed the mailbox was now pitched at a whole new angle. Its metal stand now stood about a foot and a half closer to the road. And, being the cockeyed optimists we were, we decided that she had just life a lot easier for the mailman.

And now, forty years later, I am still getting a kick out of riding my bicycle. Recently we went shopping for a new bicycle for my husband. The store where we made our big purchase felt more like a warehouse than Bresdan’s Bicycle Shop. Hundreds of bicycles were hanging from the ceiling, arranged on stands or set up on displays. We are no longer limited to Raleigh and Schwinn. No. He had to select from fifteen models with as many price points. And the technology is beyond anything I would ever have imagined as a child . . . twenty-seven gears, rapid-fire shifters, and disc brakes. Yep! Disc brakes. There was no mystery behind the young man behind the counter who took our money. I know that when I go there again, someone else will probably be manning the register.

My husband, who grew up only three miles away from me, is thrilled with his new, all black, hybrid Trek bicycle with disc brakes. It is a huge improvement over his 1969 gold Schwinn Continuental ten speed that we lugged across the country almost thirty years ago and still have safely stored in the garage. Instead of a bicycle lock, his first accessory was a pair of well-padded bike shorts, which he thinks he needs more now. The day after his big purchase, we rode to a local state park and met a friend on the path. The three of us gabbed and laughed all the way to the nearest Starbucks, where we drank green tea and rested longer than we had planned.

Then we rode the ten miles home, resting once again before we attempted to conquer the hill on Tower Road that leads to our house. At the top, I put my arms up in celebration of our accomplishment. Once inside our house, we collapsed on the family room couch. We talked about how our lungs felt stretched, our hamstrings were screaming at us and we should probably take some Advil, probably three. Then, right when our heart rates were calming down, Paul said, “Hey, Meem! Remember when we first started goin’ out and you told me that no one . . . NO ONE . . . had ever ridden straight up Dead Man’s Hill? Remember? And then I did it! Remember?” And I did recall that day, thirty-four years ago, when Paul heard this neighborhood tidbit as if it was a dare. I recalled watching for cars that might come around the bend of Mill River Road so he could get a running start from the dirt parking lot of the Mill River Inn that sat squarely at the bottom of the hill. And then, up he went. Fast at first, then slowing almost to a dead stop until, at last, he reached the top. After this flashback was over, I snapped back to my exhausted and somewhat achy state of mind so I casually responded to him with, “Yes (Lance), I remember.”

My memory also reminded me how quickly the past and the present can brush up against each other. I knew that this special day proved what I have known for years. That a bicycle is a bicycle and all you have to do is sit on one and take a little spin, especially with a friend, to make you feel like you are ten once again.