1979 Schwinn Stingray (red)

Man, from age seven to age fourteen or so, there were few things more important to me than my bicycle. It was everything.

It was transportation to school (occasionally), the swimming pool (all summer long), friends' houses, relatives' houses, stores, and movies. If I wanted a pack of gum or some kind of novelty from the drug store, I didn't ask my parents for a ride or for money. I used my own money, and I got myself there.

It was freedom to head out at 9:00 a.m. and not come back until dinner time during the summer.

It was ownership. . . ownership at a time in my life when I held supreme authority of very few other things in my life. My bike was MINE. . . not my sister's and not my friend's. Dudes had to ask before they could just pick up my bike and ride it.

It was responsibility. . . a maintenance responsibility prefiguring the responsibility of owning a car later in life. Keep the tires inflated, keep the chain lubed, maybe consider tearing it apart to install a double goose neck or a new seat or a hand break or something cool. And lock it up or it'll get swiped. Big, important decisions and responsibilities for a kid.

It was speed, too. . . the kind of speed a kid without a driver's license can't get any other way. Buzzing down a long residential hill as fast as the cars usually traveled gave me a kind of speed that almost seemed illegal. Speed AND danger. Something happened almost every day on that bike that surprised me or scared me or made me really take notice of things. A wobble at 30 mph. A rock in the road that almost sent me sprawling. A near collision with friend or a neighborhood dog. Riding my bike everywhere was the only thing my parents knowingly allowed me to do that routinely threatened my life. No helmets. No pads. Screw it. Just ride.

It was pain, too. . . the impetus for countless bruises, abrasions, serious cuts and full-on head injuries. My bike taught me to live with and play through pain, while also teaching me the finer points of scab care and maintenance. Bike riding, like life, was sometimes painful.

Perhaps most importantly, my bike was a lesson, as simple as it was profound. Getting where I was going required genuine effort on my part. No one else would help. As soon as I identified a destination, my mental GPS calculated the obstacles and risks involved. Getting to the movie theater meant tackling that huge hill on Lindbergh Blvd and that frighteningly narrow stretch of Mattis Road that had no shoulder. Before I started any trip, I weighed its benefits against the effort and risk involved. . . a cost benefit analysis as comprehensive and honest as anything I work on today.

And in the end, the benefit of a bike trip always seemed to outweigh the effort it would take. I learned that sweating up the hill to get there always promised a breezy, effortless return trip. And there was nothing sweeter to a sweaty 11 year old boy than coasting down-hill with hot summer wind pushing his hair back.

I loved my bike.