The Western Flyer

Today’s Flyover People column as seen in The Emporia Gazette:

Self-portrait, second grade.

THE WESTERN FLYER

My mom once told me, “After we gave you that bike for your birthday, we never saw you again.”

That’s true. I was on that bike like a birthmark. I rode it around Pawnee Rock on summer days from morning till night. I knew every bump on every sidewalk in town.

But then, who doesn’t like riding a bike? It’s easy, it’s fun, and you never forget how. My guess is that each one of you can still describe your own childhood bicycle.

Spring is here and bicyclists are out on the streets. Last week, when I saw three helmet-headed kids ride past my house, I recalled my own youthful biking adventures – back in the un-helmeted days of cycling, the 1960s.

One April Saturday just before my sixth birthday, Mom took my brother and me to Great Bend to purchase a bicycle. Up until then, I had been riding a scraped and dented 16” bike that had been passed around from kid to kid to kid.

Because many of our toys were second-hand, I hadn’t expected a brand new bike, but here we were in Western Auto, inhaling the fragrance of new tires. The center aisle of the store was a tangle of closely-placed bicycles, each one depending on its kickstand, chrome handlebars shining like mirrors.

When I saw the bike with sparkling green-blue metallic paint and platinum-colored fenders, I knew it was the one. This 24” bike was the perfect size and I loved the brand name: Western Flyer.

The salesman rolled the bike outdoors for me to give it a whirl. He insisted on holding onto the bike as I climbed aboard; he was not aware of my abilities – I did not fall off of bicycles, or wreck them. The sidewalk test drive was splendid. I rode, floated, to both corners and back. Yes, this was the one.

A few days later, my dad drove his pickup to Great Bend and hauled home a boxed version of the bike. That evening, in between jumps up and down, I handed Dad wrenches as he put my bike together. I skipped supper that night, riding my brand new bicycle into the sunset.

I soon became handy with wrenches myself, using them to raise the seat or to remove tires. My brother taught me how to patch an inner tube. Flat tires were common – along sidewalks and the edges of the dirt streets were goathead thorns, also known as puncture vines.

A kid learns early that wheels equal freedom. When my friends were busy, my bike gave me a way into the world, a purpose, a reason to be out there. And our dog, Patches, was with me on this; that little rat terrier followed me everywhere.

I wanted to be out in the community, to see activity, movement, and life. I rode to the frayed edges of town, kept track of who was building a garage, who was painting their house, which kids got yelled at by their mothers. I knew where everyone lived and what everyone was doing. Had there been a call for a private eye or a town spy, I could’ve done the job.

My friend Amy and I found the schoolyard to be a great place to ride since the entire playground was covered with asphalt. (Dangerous for children, yes, but on the bright side – no mud!) We rode our bikes slalom-style through the swings.

Sailing down the hill near Pawnee Rock State Park was as close to flying as a kid could get. We just had to stay out of the way of the salt plant trucks which were also flying down the hill, headed for the depot.

My bicycle allowed me to be a visible and moving part of the community. I imagine my bike and my dog and I were something of a fixture in town just like Willard the welder, Bill the lumberyard guy, Betty the tavern owner, and Bruce the old man who stood on street corners.

No possession gave me as much joy as that bicycle. Each pedal stretch energized me, I took in fresh air, I raced the wind.

Times have changed, and these days I realize just how lucky I was to be able to have that freedom, the trust of my parents, and the safety that my small hometown offered. It was a pretty good life for a girl and her dog and her bike.

Copyright 2011 ~ Cheryl Unruh

Me and Patches, the dog who followed me everywhere.