Paybacks

It's been 45 years.  I was about seven years old when I got my first real bike.  Mine.  Not a hand-me-down.  A bike that had been purchased just for me.

To say it wasn't a hand-me-down isn't quite an accurate statement:  My parents got the bike at the City of Portland Police auction in which unclaimed and recovered property was sold each year.  But it was all mine.  A well worn but sturdy made-in-Chicago Schwinn red and white coaster bike with fenders.  And I was thrilled. Thrilled until the neighbor boy came over.

Andy was older than me by about 5 years.  He was tall, muscular, autistic, and capable of falling into angry and violent rages.  When Andy saw my new bike the first words out of his mouth were, "That's my bike!" I tried to explain how the bike was mine, purchased by my parents for my exclusive use and paid in full.  No use.  Andy became insistent and started to rock and twist his hands in a prodromal behavior which was both familiar and terrifying. I retreated to the house, crying, fearing for my life, leaving my new bike to Andy's disposal and removal to his house across the street.  Long story short:  The bike was his.  Stolen. Unclaimed. Resold to me, the kid across the street.  The story concluded with Andy's parents buying him a new bike and I was able to safely reclaim my treasured red Schwinn.

Fast forward to this past weekend: Our local bike shop had an antique and home-built bike show.  The bikes were amazing.  Home built bicycles that looked impossible to ride and others you wanted desperately to try.  Sting Rays, 10-speeds, tandems, Schwinn, Raleigh, Motobecane, beautiful big steel cruisers including my own beautiful Hiawatha. But there, over on the sidelines, there was a red and white made-in-Chicago Schwinn with fenders in at least as good a shape as I ever remembered my old bike in Portland. My bike! Best of all?  Owned by the owner of the bike shop and for sale.

My big Hiawatha sits in the living room of our house most of the year.  My wife is not the type who enjoys transportation relics in her home.  They stand collecting dust in hard to reach places, waiting to be knocked over by a 4 year-old or his clumsy dad. Nonetheless, I decided I would go to the bike shop today, claim that beautiful Schwinn, and ride home with another wheeled sculpture for our living room.

As I walked in the back door of the shop there was Rick, the owner, with an amazing black beauty complete with jumbo front headlight and black fenders.  "Wow, great bike." "You like that? That's my new Schwinn."  I looked again. It was a Hiawatha, not a Schwinn.  "No, I traded a guy my red and white Schwinn for this one."  Shit!

Now I know how Andy felt.