When I was 10 or 11, I recall being overcome by jealousy over my friend Lynn Ann’s shiny silver and red Schwinn two-wheeler. I coveted it fiercely, so much so that six decades later I can close my eyes and still see it parked in front of her door .
I was also envious that she and her sister Karen took dancing lessons. I’d watch with longing as their mom sewed colorful, frothy costumes for their annual dance recitals. Plus, they were pretty; I was chubby.
I somehow knew not to ask my parents for dancing lessons, but I did let them know that I craved a bike like Lynn Ann’s … maybe for next Christmas?
We were living on the third floor of a red brick apartment building (837 Johnston Ave.) within the Glen Hazel project in Hazelwood. I had no idea then that our “project” was subsidized housing, but I did realize that money was tight in Apartment 3A. Dad was then a clerk at U.S. Steel; Mom was at home caring for me and my two little brothers with a baby enroute.
Christmas came and so did my bike — a used one, freshly painted a dull forest green. I sensed its purchase had been a stretch, even a sacrifice, for my parents and so I masked my deep disappointment that this was not the bike I’d been long envisioning. I smiled a fake smile, jumped aboard and took off for the always near-empty parking lot behind our building. I rode and rode, round and round, until my distress faded.
I comforted myself with the thought that at least Lynn Ann and I could ride together now … at least I did own a two-wheeler like my peers. But what if they laughed because it wasn’t a gleaming new Schwinn?
Thankfully, no one laughed. I enjoyed years of adventures on my second-hand wheels.
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Bike riding has turned out to be the only physical activity, besides walking, that I’ve felt confident about and competent to do. I still pedal from time to time as an adult whenever vacation spots offer bike rentals and plenty of safe spaces (preferably flat!) for riding.
The summer of ’76 was a halcyon time for engaging in my one and only “sport.” When my then-husband, an attorney, won a big case, he suggested we blow the entire proceeds by renting a summer house on Long Island Sound in tiny Madison, Conn. Yes, let’s! I agreed.
As soon as we settled in, I rented a bike with a large basket and began doing my errands, perched atop it, smiling all summer long.
Other fond bike riding locales include the boardwalk and leafy residential streets of Rehoboth Beach, Del. — but only in the off season! More recently, my partner, Phil, and I have enjoyed riding on the beach and byways of small-town New Smyrna Beach, Fla.
Despite my abiding passion, I haven’t owned my own bike since that drab dark green one over six decades ago. That changed last July when I learned I needed to have major surgery. Although my operation would not be life-threatening, the need to have it was a stark reminder of my mortality.
So I challenged myself: What do you want to add to or delete from your life to enhance the precious time remaining? I found myself yearning for a bike of my own.
I asked my longtime “purchasing agent,” my daughter (she loves to shop; me, not so much) to scout around for a cruiser, an old-fashioned bike with foot brakes, the kind I learned on.
She soon found one and called me to come check it out. I fell in love: its vintage look, its shiny purple fenders, and it was only $100, complete with a basket and holders for a cellphone and water bottles. We arranged for delivery.
The bike that arrived was not purple, but mint green. I felt mildly disappointed, ready to return it, until it occurred to me that its precursor was also green. Hmmm … I began to like the symmetry of my life being more or less bookended by green bikes. I jumped aboard.
From early August through early October, I cruised around the neighborhood when I knew traffic would be light. I breezed about, smiling nonstop, spirits lifted and feeling measurably younger than my 74 years. What a bargain for $100!
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I once read that becoming a senior has three stages: youth, from 65 to 75; middle age, from 75 to 85; and old age, from 85 onward.
And so, when merciful weather returns, I’ll snap on my green helmet, climb aboard my new wheels and pedal off into the middle age of my senior years.
Eileen Reutzel Colianni lives, writes and rides in Oakmont (eileencolianni@gmail.com).
First Published: February 4, 2017, 5:00 a.m.
