The Wonderful Red Bicycle

It came as a total surprise.

The Wonderful Red Bicycle

 

By Elton Camp

 

 

          When I was a youngster, I was at a significant disadvantage in one important way.  I was the only boy in the neighborhood who didn’t have a bicycle. Without one, I wasn’t able to keep up with the others.  Running along behind them was doomed to failure.  This caused me to miss out on adventures when the group headed out on the labyrinth of dirt roads in our rural community. 

 

          I wanted a bicycle most than anything, but never even considered telling my parents or even hinting for one. I had plenty of childish faults, but I often overheard them discussing economic problems and I didn’t intend to add to them by being selfish. I can recall only one time, when I was in the seventh grade, that I actually asked my father for money.  It wasn’t necessary to get it from him, as my mother would’ve readily given me the small amount I needed.  He and I had, however, been getting along better than usual for several weeks so I foolishly felt free to approach him. 

 

          “I need four dollars.  We have this week only to pay for the school annual.  If not, we don’t get one,” I explained.  I had been allowed and even encouraged to purchase annuals every year since they started being produced.

 

          “Well, that’s just too bad.  We don’t have money to spend like that,” he responded indignantly as if I’d asked for some outrageous purchase.

 

          I should’ve expected it, but didn’t. I handed him the opportunity to embarrass me and he took it.  “Always keep your guard up,” I silently reminded myself. “Never relax around him.” 

 

          From that point onward I made sure not to ask him for anything.  Funds for him to buy cigarettes and whiskey were always at hand, but not for things I might want beyond basic necessities. However, I never lacked for food or clothing.  My mother saw to it that I was supplied everything I needed and with pocket money, but I’m sure he didn’t know it and would have forced her to stop if he could.  Knowing my mother, I believe she would have continued it secretly. 

 

          The only time I recall him giving me money when I was a child, in anything other than a grudging way, was when we walked to the car to drive to a carnival that had set up in Guntersville.   “Here’s some money for you to spend,” he said with enthusiasm.  To my amazement he gave me a dollar bill.   That was a generous amount for a kid at that time. I hadn’t planned on spending anything.  It would be enough to walk around and see the sights of the carnival.  The windfall astonished me. 

 

          “I know you’ll just lose it, but I want you to enjoy the fair,” he added, but not unkindly. 

 

          I think he really meant it. On rare occasions, he could be quite nice. Instead of losing the money, I won a number of prizes that were worth well in excess of the dollar, including a pack of cigarettes for him. He was actually pleased at how well I’d done and told me so.  Even that faint praise made me feel good.  I wanted his approval just as most children do.

 

          The problem of the bicycle was resolved in a totally unexpected way.  My grandparents from Fayetteville came for a visit.  “We’ve got you something,” my grandmother beamed.  “Look in the cardboard box in the car trunk.” 

 

          To my astonishment, they had bought me a large red bicycle. I’d never imagined them doing anything like that, but it was certainly welcome.  I could hardly wait to try it out.  My mother, however, didn’t attempt to hide her irritation.  “I told you I didn’t want him to have one of those,” she muttered.  “He might get hurt.”  That was so unlike her, but I didn’t let it diminish my joy in the fine gift.  I never had a serious bike accident, although it could have happened.  Her concern wasn’t without basis. 

 

            It was a basic bicycle at a time when bikes, unlike those currently popular, usually had numerous accessories.  Geared bicycles didn’t exist outside professional racers and there was little emphasis on speed.  Even if it wasn’t “fancy,” I was delighted with it.  As I could afford it, I added accessories to make it look nicer.  The horn was a red, dual one with a black bulb, the headlight white and battery operated, and the basket large. Multicolored strips hung from each of the handlebar grips and a rearview mirror stood on the right handlebar.  A black mud flap with reflectors, a kickstand, and a speedometer completed the equipment.  My bike was then as nice as anybody’s.  I was so proud of it and always careful not to damage it.

 

          I had an unusually hard time learning to ride.  It was up to me to do it or not.  My mother would’ve helped me, but she didn’t know how since she had no bike as a child. No matter how hard I tried, I went only a few feet and fell over.   I took me a long time to comprehend that I had to pedal continuously until I built up speed.  Why it took me so long to learn that basic principle still eludes me. I desperately needed some help.  “Keep pedaling” would’ve done the job nicely.  Nobody said it.

 

          The wonderful, red bicycle allowed me a freedom of movement that I’d never had before.  Occasionally, I went off by myself to explore new territory or to visit my Aunts who lived even farther out in the country than we did.  Even after all these years, I still recall specific trips and roads that I traveled.  At our house, the “upper pasture” as we called it, was quite hilly.  I managed to clear a makeshift bike path through the tangle of bushes and weeds that covered it.  It seemed high adventure to me. 

 

          I kept that bicycle well maintained over the years and even took it to Columbus, Georgia when I was in my early twenties.  I rode it around in my neighborhood and in Wildwood Park for exercise.  Eventually, I got tired of it and gave it to a boy who lived with his elderly grandmother in a poor part of town. It was the only way he could have a bike.  I was tempted to retain it as a keepsake, but his need was more important.  I wanted to do for him what my kindly grandparents had done for me.