I wish I could remember the first day that I rode a bike but I can’t. The large framed red single speed I had while living on Essex St just seems to have always been there. Because of my young age I do distinctly remember having to “plan” my mount on that mightiest of metallic steeds.
Running start, later to be replaced by deftly hopping along with my left foot on the near pedal while using my right to push it like a scooter until enough momentum is gained to keep me upright long enough to swing my right leg over and strike a cadence. Stopping would of course have to also be planned in advance or risk a crash. Which was made 100 times worse if anyone saw it happen.
There are specific memories and influencers that I think of often from those early days. My grandfather, who I had rarely seen out of his jacket and fedora, came out, took his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves, climbed atop of my handlebars facing backwards and peddled away. Who knew Bampy was a trick cyclist.
Mrs. Shaffer, my grandmothers bookkeeper and friend lived alone in a tiny apartment up the street. That’s not 100% accurate. At the beginning of time, (when I was very small) Mrs. Shafer had a room at the boarding house my grandparents ran on the corner of Broadway and Cumberland St in Bangor. She later moved to an apartment just off Cumberland on Essex St. Mrs. Shaffer was kind of a no nonsense, bristly, smart women that I never got the feeling that she particularly cared for children but certainly would light up when talking about bicycles. She would always take the opportunity when presented to apart to me some of the rules of the road. Taking me out on the streets of Bangor to practice my hand signals. Signals I of course hardly ever used outside of her presence. Her love for the bicycle was in part one of convenience since she never drove a car that I know of and she seemed to have fun. She had a small stable of bikes in her tiny apartment, even had a 3 wheeler complete with a basket. She was one of if not the only person I saw who wore a small metal clip on her ankle to keep her pant cuff from getting caught in the chain. In my child’s mind she knew everything about bikes!
The local bike shop was up on Garland near Birch St I think. I swear that bike shop had the look and feel of what I imagine Geppetto’s work shop would be like had he fixed and sold bicycles rather than built marionettes. Old wooden oil soaked floors, bikes on stands, work benches full of parts and tools. The owner was a middle aged man, salt/pepper hair that wore a smock complete with a pocket on the front to hold his tools. He was always amiable, didn’t seem to mind being bombarded with questions and being forced to listen to me as I excitedly regale my exploratory rides around the Queen City.
I can’t say I was “allowed” to go anywhere in the city that I wanted but being a child of the 60’s nobody ever asked where I was or where I was going. Any boundaries were self imposed. For instance, I’d cross Broadway but never down by St. Joseph Hospital. Very seldom go up passed the bike shop to Fruit Street School area. Other than that, the city was mine.
Every neighborhood had it’s own points of interest and it’s own hazards. Going down Garland towards Pine Street rumor had it Jewish people lived there. Very nice houses so I didn’t doubt the claims. Jewish people fascinated me, I’d even ride by the school across Broadway on Somerset. Why they fascinated me remains a mystery, probably had something to do with the hats and I was told they were rich.
Weird Harold lived just a block over from me on Grove St. Weird Harold was given that name by my mother, it fit. He once threw a knife at me and it stuck in my rubber boot. He also once tried to coax me into the trunk of a car, so as you can tell he’s best avoided. That being said, I always got a charge out of riding down his block at full speed in plain sight, brazen enough to have a thrill but fast enough not to be caught.
The bike has always been a vehicle for excitement, relaxation and exploration and still is today. Pushing into my 60’s I still say “weeeee” when flowing down a trail, I still like exploring new territory and I still like talking bikes to anyone who will listen. I am more into exploration of the backcountry than I am the urban jungle these days. More likely to ride down Sugarloaf than be caught riding down I95 like I did at 8.
I owe a big thank you to all that encouraged me to ride all those years ago. Thanks to my parents for gifting me such a magical vehicle, it has truly helped shape my life.