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."

Breakfast at the Lakeview

My tummy is full after a Sunday morning excursion to the Lakeview with my buddy Fingers and my son Alexander. You can't go wrong with the fare at the Lakeview....everything from fruit filled pancakes that cover the whole plate to their token breakfast specials. If you've been there long enough, you know that if you ask nicely, they'll swap the pan fries with tomatoes, but who goes to a restaurant to eat healthy?! (The great part is that Grace and Pearl, owners of the Lakeview, are very compromising when it comes to their menu, and highly respect their customers.)

I explained my perspective just recently to my dear friend Harriet, who shares in my love for the ambiance of the Lakeview. I said that when I go and have a meal at the Lakeview I don't go there to have a private conversation. I go there to have a meal with the community. It's very common for conversations to be overheard, and for locals to partake in what may be considered a private discussion. Don't go to the Lakeview with a secret, because it won't remain that way for long. We're all in close quarters in those red vinyl booths. Sometimes I can smell my neighbour's breath, which isn't always necessarily good if they ordered the perogies with onions. But you can easily forgive these shortcomings because your breath probably smells like cabbage. Oh, and never, ever go to the Lakeview with a new date, because the regulars will all razz you and tell your potential partner every single embarrassing thing about you....no mercy.

It would be a weird day at the Lakeview if it wasn't being inhabited by Steve or Stan, Hugh, Martin, Rudy, Bob, Jack, John, Kurt, Larry, JB; you know, "the guys" that are still living and breathing because the Lakeview coffee pulses through their blood. That coffee is a damn good reason to wake up every morning.
The Lakeview coffee is completely the reason for my incessant obsession with coffee; plain ol' Lakeview coffee without any special flavouring or dashes of cinnamon. It's just good. Period. And I waitressed at the Lakeview for four summers, so the smell of java permeated into my clothes (along with the odor of grease and cigarette smoke....it was back in the day when everyone had a cigarette with their coffee, including me) leaving a permanent desire for that joe. It's also what kept me going if I made the mistake of partying my tips away the night before and had to stagger to work for a Saturday morning shift a few hours later. There was many a weekend that I got home at 2:30am, showered and turned around and went back to work for 3:30am. I didn't really like serving corn beef hash on those mornings, and my patience spread thin when the tourists asked for "American" cheese and grits. But the coffee kept me going. I was usually close to being completely sober by the time half my shift was over. Those were some pretty wild days....I can't believe I wasn't fired.

And that coffee has created a bit of controversy lately since the owners of the Lakeview decided to change the coffee cups that have been the same style for probably the last 50 years. The plain white coffee cups with the plain white saucers have been replaced with newer, larger, colourful mugs that don't need a saucer. This is efficient for a number of reasons; less space in the dishwasher due to the missing saucer, less time wasted on refills, and more coffee to drink for a reasonable price. But that's about it. I am of the old school mentality that the old way was the good way. Actually, I think just me and Hugh are probably the only ones that think this.....there's something to be said for tradition. And really, the old cup and saucer were just more aesthetically pleasing. And I could carry six cups of coffee at once because of those saucers. Now they use trays. Phhhst.....trays. And there was a nice place to hold the spoon. And the little bit of spilled coffee was caught in the saucer. Fortunately, I have one of those cups in my home so I can reminisce about them. I never use it.

I guess that it plays with the whole idea of evolution. If they change the mugs, what next? Will they get rid of the mirrored wall? What about the wooden paneling or the big "L" that screens the coffee shop side as you walk in? The horse shoe table is missing it's stools.....is that going the way of the dodo as well? I posted a photo of the Lakeview in a section on my Facebook sight, and a former resident said that nothing had changed. That's exactly right, and as it should be. Some things are just good the way they are.

And another reason I probably am not really into the whole idea of change is because going to the Lakeview constantly reminds me of when I was a kid, especially when I bring my son with me. When my dad is already there at the restaurant, and we walk in, he has such a great smile on his face. Alexander shyly goes over to him and gives him a great big hug, before he joins me again. (Today when Alexander looked at the menu my dad said, "Why are you even bothering looking at the menu when you know you're going to have the blueberry pancakes?" Everyone knows that Alexander always has the blueberry pancakes.) When I was a kid, living in Ignace, my dad would drag me along to the Husky, where he would drink his coffee with the Italian clan and play rounds and rounds of cribbage. I would snuggle in to his side with my apple juice and count his cards for him, 15-2, 15-4....and I was the one that always moved the crib peg for him. I was asked for my opinion on what cards he should keep. I was made to feel important, like I was needed in order for my dad to have a successful crib game. Who would have thought all of that love could happen over a game of crib at a grungy old gas station with a cup of coffee? Well it did. And I can assure you that it happens time and time again, at old restaurants that are just left the way they've always been.

And that's just breakfast. Wait until you have Mrs. Siemaszko's borscht on Fridays. Yet another reason to love the Lakeview, but you'll just have to go there yourself to find out.

I'll leave you with "One More Cup of Coffee" originally done by Bob Dylan, remade by The White Stripes.