Purple Harley of a Bike

Ah...biking has been on my mind lately. I think it's this incredibly warm weather, and being able to see just a hint of pavement. When I was a kid, I used to visualize blowdrying the roads dry so that I could pull out my big purple Harley. But I didn't call it my "purple Harley" when I was a kid. I didn't know anyone that had a Harley when I got my bike. Hey, I lived in Pickle Lake at the time and we were a bit sheltered there. It was just "my purple bike" at the time (actually Teresa and I shared it for some time, but eventually it became alllll mine), but in retrospect, it was the Harley of bicycles.

Man, that bike was sweet. Low to the ground, huge banana seat, shiny silver butterfly handle bars, a sweet plastic weaved basket in the front decked out with flowers that looked like quintessential gerbera daisies, a high bar on the back to hang on to or lean against, reflective pedals, and metallic purple paint. It was a beauty and it was my magic.

Having a bike when you're a kid equates to ultimate freedom, escaping your home, your parents, your siblings, your responsibilities. You've got a quarter in your pocket and a Revello on your mind and you have the means to get one without having to ask your mom 'cause you're on your bike and nobody knows where you're going. Freedom on wheels.

And that bike was completely loved for that reason. My dad used to make us put a bread bag on the seat of the bike once we parked it in the yard so that if there was a crack in the vinyl of the seat, the whole seat wouldn't get soaked when it rained, leading to a wet ass for the duration of a whole day. Plus, I think he just wanted us to preserve the seat a bit longer. He always oiled the chain for us every spring and made sure that the bike was in tip top shape. And we used to stick little plastic things on the wheel spokes that looked like straws that slid up and down the spokes when the wheels rotated, making a cool sound that is comparable to nothing else. It was a sound of its own. That bike even had a liscence plate. It had an identity and could be tracked down if need be. And I remember Teresa stuck an OPP sticker on it. The sticker had a picture of a weird little yellow monster with blue spots (does anyone else out there remember those stickers?) and it had the phone number for the OPP on it. I liked that little bit of security; knowing that someone could call the number on my bike if they found it abandoned by a rotten thief. Yeah, I thought that way when I was a kid. Justice would have to be served if someone took my bike.

There were just so many memories connected to the bike....I remember the first time I rode it on my own. Well, kinda on my own. I was probably around 5 or 6 and the seat was big enough to hold my sister and I. I sat in the front, and she sat in the back, keeping her feet well out of the way, helping to hang on to the handle bars and telling me to pedal. Pedal! Pedal! Pedal! I zoomed down the hill towards Pickle Lake's only main street absorbing my first biking experience with the feeling of pure exhiliration. My sister taught me how to ride my bike and soon we were regularly wrestling over who was going to have a chance to ride it next. We doubled a lot.

It was also on the purple Harley, with my sister, that I had my first serious bike injury. This is back in the day when helmets weren't mandatory. Heck, seatbelts weren't even mandatory in those days. Well, in my little world, shoes weren't mandatory either. My sister was doubling me around the neighbourhood when we lived in Thompson. I was probably around 4 years old and as you can imagine, I didn't really listen too well when my sister told me to make sure to stick my feet out. I did what every person fears they are going to do. I stuck my foot in the spoke and darn near sliced off my whole heel of my foot. I do remember screaming really loud. I remember seeing my neighbour stick her head out her door, and I remember seeing my dad come out of the house, and I don't remember anymore from that experience, thankfully. Harley war wounds.

We made plywood ramps and spent hours biking down Spruce Crescent for the quick thrill of air time. I would pick up Melanie or Shannon and we'd stuff our basket with a towel and head to the beach or Mel's cabin for the day, biking home only when the sun was settling in for the night. I can still smell the sun in my skin, and feel the air blowing my hair into impossible knots that my mother would curse to comb out. I would wear my flip flops out skidding the bottoms along the road. I would stand up and sway my whole body back and forth, weaving down the road until I could hear a vehicle sneak up behind me. I'd race my dad home at lunch time, begging him to clock how many miles per hour I was making on the Harley.

And then one day it was just gone. I don't remember how that happened, and I don't remember being traumatized by it either. I was on to the next hand-me-down bike; my sister's three speed. ( I continued to get hand me down bikes until I saved up my own money in high school and bought myself a red speed bike from Sears which came unassembled. My boyfriend put it together for me and it was always a little big crooked, but it got me out to Harry's Corner every day at lunch during the summer so that I could visit him at the gas station.) And I don't necessarily yearn for the bike per se, even though it would certainly be a classic collector's item now, for sure, but I yearn for the sense of innocence and the simplicity of life that those bike rides afforded me.

My students occasionally tease me. They say they saw me whizzing by on my bike down Howey Street. I pawn my coffee off on teachers that I meet at the coffee shop in the morning, begging them to take it to school for me since I'm on my bike. But I've also just burned my legs on the hot coffee that I've stuffed into the water holder as I cruise up the hill to school. I've salvaged a couple of old bicycles that have been either given to me or yanked from the dump and strapped them to my deck of my house like beautiful ornaments, perhaps to my neighbour's dismay. My friend Deanna bought me a shirt for Christmas that says "biker chick" on it which includes an image of a bicycle and I wear it with honour. Call it an addiction, or obsession, but it's not in your typical "I want to be fit and bike for the sake of exercise" kind of addiction....it's all about the connection that bike gives me to my past and to remind me that life doesn't have to be so complex. I can just hop on my bike and erase my worries and just pedal myself into giddy oblivion. It's that easy.

"Get your bike out of the lanes marked 'yesterday' or 'tomorrow' and pop your wheelies in today."