The bicycle was invented in Europe in 1885, and through the generations the memory of a first bicycle continues to stand out as a significant life event.
The Hub‘s dad traded grain screenings to the elevator agent in exchange for a bike for him. The bike was big, but he eventually mastered it. Later he got a brand-new red J C Higgins bike that came in on the train from Sears. The station manager’s son kindly put it together for him.
My parents bought me a green banana seat wheelie bike with monkey bar handles. It was dark by the time we got it set up, but my brother and I went outside anyway and took turns riding it under the yard light. That was a good day.
My mom mid-1940s, D’Amour District (Leask)
Learning to ride a bike has always been an important rite of passage. I don’t recall having training wheels on our bikes on the farm; that probably was an extra option that parents didn’t bother with. If you did have training wheels, you would’ve been ridiculed by other kids anyway. You either learned to ride quickly, or you were left behind crying, spinning your wheels in a dusty pothole.
Usually, an older sibling was around to show the younger ones the ropes, so my parents didn’t have to trot behind my bike holding me up. Running down the gravel street in front of our house, holding on to the back of my kid's banana seat bike is a vivid memory. Although that was in the 90s, the feeling of letting go and watching them wobble away remains.
There was a balloon tire bike and a plain black bicycle that my older siblings had when they were at home, and we younger kids tried to ride them. They were adult size, so that didn’t work out very well.
The bike I had was basic, but when my kids were teens, they rode speed bikes. My daughter just told me that the bike she has now has 21 speeds. I didn’t even know bikes could have that many speeds. How is it that I am today years old and just finding this out?
Oh, and a kickstand! Getting a kickstand for your bike was a big deal. I don’t know why we thought that was important, as we never used it anyway; we just dropped our bikes wherever we stopped. Who had time for a kickstand? We would skid up to the house and leave our rides leaning against the cement slab step, ready for when we returned. If Dad went outside before us, we caught heck for ditching our bikes on his path. If you have ever been around when your parent tripped over your bike, you know what I’m talking about.
A playing card attached to the wheel's spokes made an impressively loud slapping sound, and a horn to honk was always a bonus. When I was a little girl, I envied the kids with the cool plastic streamers hanging from their bike’s handgrips.
We tied our little red wagon to a bicycle with a piece of baler twine and pulled each other around or hauled water to flush out some gophers. Every spring we would ride out and check the fence line along the road to see if the crocuses were blooming.
The seat on a bike was another issue, and the old bike seats were hard as a rock and left your butt feeling worse for the wear. Over the years, manufacturers came out with plusher seats, even gel ones.
Back in the 60s and 70s, we didn’t have bike helmets, elbow pads or knee pads. There weren’t any legal requirements for bicycle safety gear. If you crashed, it was viewed as a part of growing up.
Bike riding seemed like a reasonably harmless activity, but it was not without its perils. Everyone remembers biffing it off a bike and fearlessly getting right back on. There’s nothing that reminds a kid that they’re not invincible faster than a solid road rash.
One time, we were riding down the lane at a good clip and my brother hit a patch of loose gravel. In a flash, his bike jack-knifed, and the handlebar nailed him hard on the side of the knee. He fell to the ground; the blow must’ve hit some nerves as his whole leg went numb and he couldn't get up at first. I didn't know what to do. I just stood there straddling my bike, looking down at him with a bewildered expression of “what the hell just happened”. We abandoned his bike where it lay and slowly made our way back to the house. One other time he hit the rhubarb by the house and slid face-first on the ground. That was a bad one.
Who can forget getting their pant leg caught in the greasy chain of their bike? You had to slowly roll your bike to release the pressure on the fabric. A distinct chain imprint or perhaps a rip was left on your pants.
Attempting tricks like riding with your eyes closed, standing on the seat or popping wheelies while speeding down a rough country road seemed like a better idea than it was. Double riding with a passenger on the seat behind you, holding their feet out at an awkward angle or one sitting in front of you with their feet perched on the handlebars to keep them out of the spokes were other classic moves. After listening to the podcast of this story, a listener reminded me about riding on the handlebars of a bike, I had forgotten about that one! A passenger hitching a ride standing on the rear axle and hanging onto the driver's shoulders was another ill-fated venture tried by many. These activities were a tad treacherous but fun nonetheless.
If you could ride with no hands on the handlebars, your skill level was considered substantial. It wasn’t a feat that everyone could perform. Many maneuvers didn’t end well, though; thus, the saying “Look, Mom no hands, Look, Mom no feet, Look, Mom no teeth”! Bicycles can be tricky, and they can inexplicably disappear right from under you. It is possible, though, that I remember us being bigger daredevils than we truly were. Time has a way of diluting memories.
On summer days, my brother and I rode down the lane and onto the open road, pulling over for the odd vehicle or farm implement that passed. Eventually, our little sister joined us on our adventures. We were seven and nine years older than her, so she had difficulty keeping up on her little bike. We expected her to prove herself if she hoped to roll with us; with tiny legs peddling double-time, she earned her spot on the bike squad.
We would ride around for a long time before anyone came looking for us. Our parents worried about us getting hit by a vehicle, but they felt we were safe otherwise. They were confident that we would show up back at home eventually. There were no cell phones, and we didn't wear watches; time didn’t mean anything to us anyway. We were like the farm animals; we sensed when it was time for supper.
My brother claims I stopped biking with him in my teens. I guess I had other more pressing interests. He bought himself a ten-speed white road bike from Sears and kept on riding. He would go the quarter-mile to the neighbours where he worked or ride three miles into town to visit a friend.
When my nieces and nephews visited the farm, five or six old bikes were lying around that they could ride. They got a kick out of dragging those bikes out of the long grass by the garage and taking them for a spin. Riding back and forth past the granaries to the field, through the yard again and down the lane, kept them occupied for hours.
When my kids were little, I had a blue lady's bike I called the Roadster. It boasted a wire basket on the front and was equipped with a child carrier on the back. One day I leaned the bike up against the wall by the door at the post office with my kid strapped in the carrier and darted in to grab my mail. When I came out, the bike had fallen onto its side on the steps, and my poor child was hanging upside down still in the seat; it wasn’t one of my finest parenting moments. People were walking in and out of the post office, looking at me like I was insane. Despite that one transgression, both our kids loved to ride around the village on the back of the Roadster.
Our son rode his tricycle around in Mom and Dad’s house when I was at work. I don’t think it ever got any outdoor miles on it. He would go back and forth from the kitchen to the living room.
When he turned 12, The Hubs got him a dirt bike. Him and his buddies were always up to something. I recall glancing out my kitchen window one day and observing that they had constructed a makeshift ramp in the back alley. A minute later to my horror my son came shoot down the back alley and went flying over the ramp. I have to admit that he got some good air.
Our son is tall and the bike he had in high school was a men's ten-speed with the seat raised. One day I fool heartedly decided to ride it uptown to get a few groceries. I got to the store okay, but of course I bought more than I had planned. When I set out for home, I had a heavy bag hanging from each handlebar. I weaved as my load shifted, and I crashed into the gravel. To add insult to injury, it then started to rain and I had to limp my way home pushing the bike plus lugging my groceries which I had retrieved out of the dirt.
Through the years there were annual parades and functions and the kids in the community decorated their bikes with streamers, balloons and flowers hoping to win a prize. They were so proud to ride in the procession with their parents and grandparents snapping pictures and cheering. My daughter and I also participated in several bike-a-thon fundraisers.
Many parents can relate to the experience of going out with their kid and returning home carrying the kid and bike.
Bicycles are clean, green machines that are ridden around the world. What’s that saying? The one that compares doing something you haven't done in a while to riding a bike - “it's like riding a bike, you never forget”.
Bicycles have longevity; they are passed down from siblings and cousins and are bought and sold at garage sales. I’ve heard that banana seat bike‘s from the 70s are hard to find now and are worth some cash; dang, I knew I should’ve kept mine. It takes a lot before a bicycle hits the landfill; by then, if it could talk, it would have many stories to tell.
I can’t recall the last time I rode a bike, but maybe I will buy myself a new one. Of course, it would have to be a green banana seat wheelie bike with monkey bar handles. Once The Hubs gets it put together, I’m going to ride it after dark under the street light!
If you enjoy my stories please continue to share them, thanks, Norma.
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