Bike Toss

Bike Toss
Every few years my parents would reward me for all the hard work I did on the farm, with a new bike. Dad loved his cars and he understood that bike to me, was like his car to him . I know, I know, it’s a guy thing, but it’s still true. If you think those little girls didn’t take a second look at me on that shiny new two-wheeler, you can think again.

I ruined my first bike learning to ride, but that’s another story. A friend left the second bike behind a tractor. It fell victim to a set of dual wheels. After about the third or fourth bike, Dad passed a new law at our farm. “Want a new bike? You pay for it.” It’s that second bike that plays a part in this little story.

I came home from school one bright day early in the spring to find a present waiting for me. It was a brand new twenty-six inch Supercylce bike. It was state of the art, red and white with lots of chrome and whitewall tires. I was the envy of all the neighborhood kids.

I was biking home from a neighbor’s house and I came to the large hill leading up the road to our driveway. The hill was very steep so I got off of my bike and continued toward home pushing the bike along up the hill. The hill was probably about two hundred yards from bottom to top and about half way up I heard a car coming. I moved over to the edge of the road and turned to see that it was Mom coming home from town. I flagged her down. When she stopped, I asked if I could put my bike in the trunk and get a ride the rest of the way home. Needless to say, the answer was no. She told me that the house was just up at the top of the hill. “Don’t be so lazy,” she said.

I argued, but to no avail. Mom simply put the car in drive, and drove. I wasn’t happy. In a fit of temper I threw my bike down into the ditch then stood and watched in a huff as mom drove into our driveway and disappeared. Now by threw I mean more like pushed. I didn’t pick it up over my head and toss it. I shoved it away from me and it tumbled into the ditch. Not the way to treat a bike, but no real damage done or so I thought. After a short pout I gathered up my bike and walked it the rest of the way home. I had forgotten however that cars had rear-view mirrors, and Mom had been looking in hers. As I walked into the kitchen Mom turned around, looked at me, and in a very matter-of-fact voice said, “Go put your bike in the shed.”

Mom was born before the First Word War and lived through The Great Depression, so she understood the value of a dollar. She didn’t waste anything and she expected me to take care of what I was given.

I put my bike away and came back to the house just a little bit confused because I always kept my bike inside the door of the back porch. Mom simply looked at me again said, “Now, it can stay there for two weeks and then maybe you’ll know how to take care of
it.”

I was by no means a perfect kid. I was known to argue and even talk back at times, but something in Moms tone told me that I had better keep my mouth shut. I walked for the next two weeks.