Greenie - the big fat bike

13.
The summer after second grade I had definitely outgrown the 16-inch bike that thankfully no longer had training wheels, but didn't have any brakes, either. Off and on, I whined about needing a bigger bike, but with all the other outdoor activities we found to keep us busy, I usually forgot about it -that is, until one day a neighbor approached my father with an offer I couldn’t let him refuse.

The man was walking a newly-painted green and white 26-inch woman’s bike with big fat tires, a big, wide seat with bell springs under it, big fenders and a light on the front that actually worked. It was a used bike, and a lot of effort had gone into fixing it up and making it look pretty good, but more for someone twice my size. Our neighbor offered it to my father for $10.

“It’s way too big for her. She’s only seven,” my dad countered.

“She’ll grow into it - and it’s a sturdy bike. The other kids will be able to use it too,” the neighbor persisted, looking past me to Sue playing in the yard.

I was already straddling the bike, my feet planted on the sidewalk. The new paint job was done with care and the two colors made it look like the most beautiful bike in the world to me. I prepared to ride it but there was no way would I be able to reach the pedals while sitting on the seat. And "sturdy" didn't begin to describe the bike. It was monstrous, tremendously heavy and difficult to steer. But I was determined it would be mine.

“I can ride it, Daddy. Watch me.” I gripped the white rubber handlebars and headed off down the sidewalk, barely able to keep my balance while having to keep all my weight on the pedals; it was like I was on a moving elliptical machine. I struggled to keep it in the center of the sidewalk, steering carefully to avoid the dreaded dirt gutter between the grass and the sidewalk on some of the lawns. With each rotation of the pedals, I could feel the point of the seat jabbing me in the middle of my back. It was hard work keeping my balance and I never built up much speed, but I made it to the corner, turned the bike around and started to head back toward my father.

Getting the hang of it a little better enabled me to gain momentum which helped me gain some confidence, but that quickly disappeared once I realized that stopping at a faster speed created another problem altogether. Using footbrakes was still new to me and as I attempted to reverse the pedals, I slipped off of one and fell onto the sloping frame that supported the front of the bike. The pain between my legs was nearly unbearable, but I couldn’t let my father see that this one short trip already resulted in an injury. Still, I managed to stop the bike and kept it from tipping over all together.

I smiled up at him with a shaky, “See? I can ride it real good!”

Daddy bought me that bike and it seemed to last forever - after all, I couldn't ride it to school or in the street - just up and down the block on the sidewalk. But after a while, I got big enough so that I could actually pedal around on it while sitting on the seat. And when it got a flat tire, Dad taught me how to find the leak by placing the inner tube in a tub of water and looking for the bubbles. Together, we patched the hole with glue and a red patch from a repair kit we got at a bicycle store. Greenie was good for another summer.

Years later, when the fat tires, chipping paint and broken light made it finally become too uncool and dilapidated of a bike for any of us to ride around on, we took it apart to use piece by piece for go-carts or replacing something broken on another bike.

There are probably still parts of it somewhere in my mother’s garage.