MY FIRST BIKE, A SHORT-LIVED PATH TO FREEDOM AND EXPLORATION

Bruce Springsteen has a home town while I have at least two, if not three home towns.

But, in reality, I was more attached to my first bicycle than any specific geographic location.  

At 9, slightly older than Grandson Jack is now, I got the J.C. Higgins bike, pictured at left, ordered from the Sears-Roebuck catalog.  I was proud it was a "heavyweight," not a "middleweight," like my sister got and also proud that, on the fork were the words "Made in Germany." 

The bike was too tall for me and, on my first ride, I realized I didn't know how to get off.  Thinking fast, I peddled next to a house in the Highland Park subdivision in Renton, Washington, letting the bike gently fall against the house.

An old geezer, about the age I am now, rushed out of the house, refusing to accept my apologies for bashing his home.

"No, son.  I saw you were kind of wiggly and thought you were going to crash.  You'll learn how to ride that thing.  Just keep trying."

That bike was freedom, freedom from a verbally and physically abusive father and the freedom to explore.  I drove through downtown Renton, stopping to read the poster at the Renton Theater for Elvis Presley's "Love Me Tender," then over to Tony's Pizza Parlor to be mesmerized by Tony flipping pizza crust high into the air and catching every time.

My ne'er-do-well dad, in one of his frequent moves to "find a job," sold my bike midway through seventh grade.  He said it "didn't fit" on the makeshift trailer pulled by our family's 1955 Chevy Nomad.