“Why are you walking? Don’t you have a bike?” some kid would ask.
“No, I broke a window in a street rumble when I lived in Boise and had to pay for it with my bike money,” I would say.
“ Didn't you have to go to jail?”
“No, I didn't go to jail because my dad was a policeman.”
“My dad can beat your dad up because he’s a logger!”
“Well, my dad was a police and he has a gun. So there! No say-backs!” I would yell.
I figured all those pointless conversations could be avoided if only I had a bike of my own!
It was simple. As the new kid in town, I got no respect because there was no bike. Ricky and Danny rode over to our place on their bikes. Mikey had his new red Spider bike sitting out near the porch. I had nothing. I had no wheels for bragging rights. I had no ride.
I could have bragged about all my exploits from Boise! All those rumbles I had been in with the neighbor kids. How I could bounce a rock off someone’s head when they were far away. But even as a five year-old, I knew that being a braggart was worse than just about anything. Nobody liked a braggart. The reputation for that was worse than being bike-less.
I rued the day that I zeroed in on that kid with a rock; the rock that missed its target. That shattering window played over and over in my mind–how it cracked and fell into the back seat of that car. Also shattered was my chances of getting a bike for awhile.
I complained to mom and dad. I figured the time elapse for discipline was up and I should be able to move on with my life. They both just gave me that look–you know–the one that says, “Bad boys who break windows don’t get bikes whenever they want.” Whatever!
One day, dad came home from work and said that he had a surprise for me in the car. We went out and he pulled a candy apple, red and yellow bicycle out of our Volkswagen bus. I stared in disbelief. The curse had been lifted! I now had some street cred.
My new bike had a big wheel in back and a smaller one in front. The back tire was a “slick,” meaning that it had no tread because the bike was strictly for going really fast so there was no need for any tread. Later on, Grandpa Hicks, who was my personal bike mechanic, said that the reason for the little wheel on the front of my bike was to make it go faster because I would always be going downhill! Until I gained a bit more knowledge and common sense, I believed him.
That bicycle was to become my only form of personal transportation for the next six or seven years. I was known around town as “that shy Hicks kid with the cool bike.” Everybody needs a prop and I now had one. That would be enough to get me through the next phase of my life. I would no longer lead a life of obscurity.
When I began studies at The White House Kindergarten the next year, I parked my bike out front on the sidewalk. Everyone knew it was to look at, admire, but NOT touch. One time I came out of class and a kid was messing with my bike. I threatened him with a good pounding if he didn't leave it alone. Janna, my kindergarten girl-friend who was standing nearby was really impressed.
In the second grade, I fell in love with Diana, that cute little dark-haired girl with big, brown eyes. Her family was joining ours for dinner that evening, so I went over to her house and picked her up. With the banana seat, there was room for two and it was great having her sitting behind me as we rode to my house, holding on tight…That’s the first moment when I began to understand what it meant to be a man…with a fast ride and a beautiful woman. Who could ask for more?
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