Dream With A Bent Wheel

When my parents gave my brother Tony and me bicycles for Christmas they opened up a whole new world of exploration and independence. They put no restrictions on where we could go on our bicycles with the exception of one. We were told that under no circumstances were we to go across Rosedale Street in the Polytechnic section of Fort Worth. For me that seemed of be a good rule. Rosedale, even in that day, was a treacherous byway and certainly was not a good place for children to be riding their bicycles. Besides, we had miles and miles of roads, roads that were much safer, that we could ride. It seemed like a fair trade off to me.

It did not seem fair to Tony. He did not want anyone telling him what he could or could not do or where he could or could not go. To say he had developed a rebellious streak would be putting it mildly. He had bristled the year before when Big Jim married my mom. Tony felt he was the man of the house and that he did not need Big Jim telling him what to do.

He often encouraged me to do things that would make dad upset. He knew I loved dad and dad loved me and he seemed bent on damaging that relationship. This explains why Tony kept after me to ride my bicycle across Rosedale Street. His persistent ragging on me about it finally broke my resolve. I rode across the dangerous intersection near our house with a racing heart and a dry mouth. Once on the other side, Tony exclaimed, “See I told you nothing would happen. Jim just doesn’t want you to have any fun.” It seemed my big brother was right. Nothing had happened and I was sure I could get back across that same intersection safely.

What attracted us to go across Rosedale Street in the first place was a large red dirt hill that boys would push their bikes up and then ride back down. All the boys seemed to be having a grand time so I decided to give it a try too. But before I could ride down I had to push my bike to the top. That was an ordeal in itself. Once at the top I put the kick stand down on my bike till I could find the courage to ride down what seemed like a mountain (which looking back is funny. If you live in the area you know there are no mountains in Fort Worth…only big piles of dirt.)

While I was working on courage I heard some boys yell out to the rest of us from a nearby bread store. They were inside the dumpster and had discovered a treasure trove of day old cupcakes and donuts. We all ran as fast as our little legs would carry us to the dumpster. We were all climbing in and stuffing ourselves with our good fortune when we heard the sound of an off-road motorcycle. The driver was on his trusty steed trying to conquer the hill…the hill where my bike was parked right at the top...right where the motorcycle would soon be. To make things worse, because of the angle, the driver could not see my bicycle.

We were all frozen looking at the hill. We could not see the motorcycle from our angle but each boy there had a fear his bike might be ready for the garbage dump soon. And then we heard a crash and what sounded like the motorcycle going out of control. The engine died, was quickly restarted, and could be heard retreating down the hill. We all scampered out of the dumpster like cock roaches when the light is turned on.

I am sure there were more prayers being offered up that afternoon than at the average church on a Sunday morning. “Please, don’t let it be mine.” was my selfish prayer. Being a little younger and slower than most of the boys, I was the last one to arrive at a place on the hill where the damage could be observed. I pushed through the gathering and saw what I feared. It was my bicycle. My front wheel was bent almost double like a taco. My brother jabbed me with his elbow and exclaimed, “I told you you shouldn’t come over here. Jim will kill you if he ever finds out. You are in big trouble…but I’ll help you.”

By way of “help” Tony did not mean he would give me his front wheel or loan me his bike. He did not mean he would pay for a new wheel. By “help” he meant he would slam on my wheel with a sledge hammer and hop up and down on it as it was leaned against a curb until it was almost straight. But, you know, almost straight is not good enough when dealing with things with wheels…especially if they only have two to start with. My once beautiful bike now looked like a 2:00 a.m. drunk on Saturday night. I couldn’t have made it wobble more if I tried. Some of the boys teased with me saying I looked like a circus clown act. I guess I was the only one not laughing.

Tony told me that when Jim asked what had happened I was to tell him that to avoid being hit by a car I had run into a curb, thus bending my wheel. As big brothers often do, he helped me practice my lie. He wanted me to be convincing. A few days later Big Jim saw my precarious wheel and asked what had happened. My throat seized up and didn’t want to let any words out but my practice paid off and I was able to spit out the lie my brother had coached me in. My dad paused, looked over his glasses at me, and said, “You sure about that, son?” I was in neck deep by this time and reassured him that my tale was truthful.

Having lived 53 years and raised seven children I know dad did not buy my story for one minute. He knew I was not being truthful but he was not going to punish me for lying. I guess he knew the wobbly wheel would be punishment enough. What I did not know then but I do know now is it would not have been me that got in trouble if I had told the truth…it would have been my brother. Of course Tony realized that…and thus the lie he taught me.

I rode that bike for a couple of more years after that. It was embarrassing but a bad bike is better than no bike at all I reasoned. During this time I had joined the Boy Scouts of America. The local troops were hosting a fundraiser bike event that would support a childhood disease. We were expected ride something like 15 miles to raise money. I was excited about participating but sad that my bike was so pathetic. I asked mom and dad if they would get me a new bicycle. I figured I had a chance because I rarely asked for anything.

By this time boys were riding bikes with multiple speeds and front and rear brakes. Mine was a plain Jane bike. (No offense to any women named Jane.) It was single speed with coaster breaks. I told my parents all the other boys would have cool bikes and mine was old fashioned. My emotional plea was met with pure logic. They had no extra money and could not afford such an extravagance especially since I had a “perfectly good” bike already. Dad did, however, offer to buy me a new front wheel. I accepted.

The day before the race dad called me out to the garage. When I got there I saw a glorious sight. He and mom had purchased a three speed bike with front and rear brakes. It was green and looked very stylish. I grabbed my dad and gave him a big hug. He told me to go ride and break it in. I was so proud of that bike the next day I must have looked like the big yellow, happy faced character form Wal-Mart. Dad and mom really did understand they cared about how I felt.

Several months later we moved to Wichita Falls and started a little farm. Close to the farm was a very steep paved road. Tony, now 18, was visiting us with his new wife. He wanted to go ride down the big hill on my new bicycle. I was riding my old red Firestone. We started picking up some serious speed. The wind was sweeping by so quickly we could hardly hear each other. Tony started getting a little scared since this was his first time on the hill. It was also his first time on a bike with hand operated brakes. He yelled out in desperation, “Which one of these things is the brake?” I yelled back, “Pull the right one.” That was the rear brake on my bike. He pulled the left lever. Instantly the bike and Tony were airborne. Tony was slammed into the pavement and to make matters worse the bike came down on top of him. I thought he would never stop rolling and sliding on the pavement. When he did finally come to a stop his shirt was ripped off and his pants were barely hanging on. Blood was pouring out all over his skinned body. We took him to the hospital where the doctor spent a couple of hours putting bandages on him and sewing him up.

To this day Tony has some major scars on his body from that simple mistake. And of course, he claims I told him the wrong lever. I know I told him correctly. He just doesn’t know his right from his left. Oh, and my bike? Wouldn’t you know it? It got a bent front wheel.