I pined for a Schwinn Stingray. A sleek banana seat and raised handlebars. Looking back, I know my reasoning fell on the deaf ears of a police officer father who had just two boxes to check when it came to acquiring a bicycle for his 8-year-old daughter.
Safety and economy.
The boxes got checked with a Sierra brown Schwinn Suburban. A bargain at the Skokie police unclaimed property auction. Five speeds and an ugly black saddle seat.
Nothing sleek about a Suburban, but it was mine.
Because of its size I could ride my friends behind me on my seat while I stood and pedaled. A different kind of cool that tapped into the athleticism that came to be my salvation. A feeling of power that stays with me still.
I may have been kept safely away from the ultra-cool Stingray, but I rode miles away from home with my friends. Never mind, it was mainly on bike trails. We rode far, through forest preserves, over rivers and bridges to villages and towns around us. A secret we kept from our parents.
The bike I came to love would come with me to college and offer the same freedom to a freshman as it did for a restless kid on Mango Street.
The whole family was outfitted with a bike from the auction. I wonder now was the riding respite for a young man not yet thirty. A small starter home and squad car that were coming to define who he was. Comfort and confinement sometimes share a roof.
My mother was a tentative rider and even as a child, I recognized her bravery and game for embracing something with such risk. In another time she’d have been an all-star in whatever sport she chose. Rhythm, coordination, and pluck in spades.
For whatever reasons the rides began. They created a shared memory and bond a television or newspaper after dinner could never do.
A visit to Peurye Cyclery for the accessories that would make my dad’s plans possible was in order. The oily smell of the shop and being around people that worked with their hands made me happy. Still does.
Marshall Peurye greeted my dad like an old friend. Shop towel hanging out of his trouser pocket. With no plastic yet to break people it was still a cash world and he and his wife Beverly were good to us. Everything we needed to make our bikes embarrassingly safe to ride. Big bulb horns, bells, mirrors, fenders, reflectors, and lights.
After dinners, we’d saddle up and off we’d go. Dishes in the sink and dirty pans on the stove waiting for my mother and I to return.
Exploring the neighborhoods on our bikes that he patrolled. Police officers knew all the good streets and crossings. We rode on the busy main roads as well. Couldn’t be helped as we ventured further away.
Riding for miles with no helmets or bike lanes to protect us. My baby brother buckled into a collapsible seat behind my mom seems so precarious now, but even seat belts in cars were just a suggestion then.
Single file always. Dad in front, mom in the middle and me bringing up the rear. Protecting my mother and baby brother always the priority for both of us. With my father now gone, something I’m still doing fifty-five years later.
The miles we covered; I am amazed he embraced the adventures like he did. A man who would come to question the weather I went running in.
Returning home in the twilight and sometimes dark. The air smelled different when the streetlights came on. The hum and vibration of the generators on the bike tires. Our lights pulsing brighter with pedaling. Single file we rode on Mango Street.
Finally, the familiar bump of our driveway curb.
Sleep came easy those nights.
Thinking back, I don’t remember why they ended; I only know I wish they hadn’t.
