A couple of weeks ago, there was a story posted here about getting jacked for my brand new Ross 3-speed bike at knife-point when I was just a young slug. It was a traumatic experience for a kid that grew up in the “Father Knows Best” setting of West Los Angeles. Aside from the harrowing episode of having my prized wheels ripped off, I recall being cognizant of the economic impact of the crime on our middle class family.
My father, who was a union electrician and sole income-earner of our “Leave it to Beaver” household, made good money thanks to the benefits of collective bargaining…but a new bicycle with all the bells and whistles was still a stretch for my depression era father...and my recollection was that it had cost my parents something in the neighborhood of $80.00. That was big money in the late 60s…and though he was happy I wasn’t hurt in the incident…I know it couldn’t have been easy for him to see that purchase just disappear.
Several weeks later…sometime in January, I returned home to find a brand new forest green Schwinn 10-speed. This bike was even nicer that the one that had been stolen, and I couldn’t believe the generosity of my parents who once again sacrificed on my behalf. This new sled was a beauty…and it wasn’t long before my stolen 3-speed was a distant memory in my handle-bar mounted mirror.
Shortly after getting that bike, I got a paper route delivering the Los Angeles Harold Examine at the two 28-story Century Towers adjacent to the Hillcrest Country Club (where Milton Berle and George Burns played cards daily). I also had to ride up the center of the Hello Dolly set each day at Twentieth Century FOX studios, where I delivered five copies of the paper to the guard stand every day.
The coveted route was an afternoon gig Monday through Saturday, but on Sundays I would have to ride up Pico boulevard in the pitch dark to deliver the morning paper. I received a couple of tickets for riding without a light from a couple of LA motorcycle cops who were quintessential a-holes, so my father decided to install and generator light on the rear of my bike (the rotating tire in the back cause the light to glow).
I remember coming into the garage one weekend afternoon, and my dad had an odd expression on his face. He also looked a bit bruised up…and he went on to explain what had just happened. You see, shortly after installing the light, my dad took the Schwinn out for a test drive on our Ester Ave street. He rode up-and-down the pavement a few times looking back periodically to make sure the generator was working properly. As he attempted to head up our driveway…he inadvertently missed the mark and hit the curb instead. He proceeded to fly over the handlebars and land on the green parkway…but the bike hit the concrete so hard that the frame actually broke.
This was unbelievable… another brand new bike and appeared to be ruined. We took the bike up to Rancho Park Schwinn on Pico…and the crew-cutted store manager Russ (weird how you remember stuff like that)…said he’d try to weld the broken frame. I could tell my dad felt terrible…so I tried to act as though it was no big deal. A couple of days later we went to pick up the bike, and though they had done a pretty good job, you could certainly tell it had a pretty bad blemish. Again…I knew I was fortunate to have the bike (this one cost over $100)…so I tried to act as though everything was fine.
Well…a couple of days later, I returned home after school to find a brand new (Silver…tried to change the luck I guess) Schwinn 10 speed. The damaged bike was still in the garage…and my dad went on to explain Russ had made him a good deal on the second replacement Schwinn. When I asked him why he’d purchased yet another one…he responded by saying that he could tell by the expression on my face that I was disappointed when I saw the repair on the broken frame.
Well, I kept that silver bike for the next 10 years…and literally rode it into the ground. The damaged green rig became my father’s bicycle…and some forty years later…it’s still hanging in the garage of their Santa Paula, California home. He rode it well into his 80s before passing away a few days shy of his 90th birthday.
What’s the point of all this? Well, if you think I know…I'll make you a great deal on a vintage 10-speed bike with two rotted flat tires and a damaged frame. I guess it’s just that I miss my dad…and that I wished I’d been nicer to him during certain formidable years of my life.
Whatever you’re doing this weekend...try to have some fun. If it works…spend some time with the people you love. If you can…you may even want to visit…or at least call your dad.
Have a great weekend. BTW…there was NO time to check misspellings and typos today (I don’t catch ‘em even when I do), so I do apologize.
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