for openers
A Boy and His Bicycle
— A Love Affair (Part 1)
W
hen it came to
learning how to
ride a two-wheel-
er, I was a late bloomer. But it
wasn’t for lack of trying. Every
spring, my dad would take
off my training
wheels and run
behind me, hold-
ing onto the back
of my bike. And
every year, when
he would let go,
I would imme-
diately tumble to
the grass on either side of the
sidewalk. My hopes were yet
again crushed. I might try it a
few more times, but I quickly
gave up.
I don’t recall being teased or
taunted about this. Actually,
other kids in the neighborhood
were pulling for me to figure
it out. But that support didn’t
help me stay on my bicycle.
Until one year, when things
just clicked. My dad again ran
behind me, holding on just like
before; amazingly, when he let
it go, this time I just kept on
riding on my own all the way
to the end of the block. I recall
hopping off with the help of
a brick wall for support. I felt
like I had just won the World
Series with a homer in the ninth
inning.
Somehow, with renewed con-
fidence in my balance, I also fig-
ured out how to start and stop
on my own that day. Proudly, I
rode my bike up and down the
block with my friends, older
and younger, who had mastered
the process well before I had. I
finally had joined the club. That
day when I finally figured out
how to stay balanced on my
bicycle still ranks among the
greatest days of my life. I had
wheels. Endless possibilities
loomed ahead of me.
Later that afternoon, I asked
a friend to accompany me on
a ride around the block. He
asked if I was sure I was ready,
and I pseudo-casually nodded.
We headed north on the side-
walk on Pinehurst, turned left
onto the street on Cambridge
(a small side street one block
north of Seven Mile Road)
and then left again onto Monte
Vista. I had walked around the
block to Monte Vista many
times to visit my friends, but
this was different. This time,
I was on my chariot in the
street. My friend asked again if
I were sure about this “round
the block” plan. About `half-
way down Monte Vista, I sud-
denly realized what he meant.
Looming ahead of us was Seven
Mile Road, the big street that I
had only been allowed to cross
at a light with an adult. Oops!
Just as I was about to change
my mind, a car turned off Seven
Mile onto Monte Vista. I froze
on my bike, in the middle of
the street. The driver saw me
coming and glided to a stop. I
took my feet off the pedals, held
on and gently rammed right
into the front of the stopped car
and promptly fell off my bike
onto the road. I’m sure I started
crying. Other than my pride, I
was OK. But the neighborhood
watch went into overdrive. My
Monte Vista friends, who had
witnessed my accident, ran
(or rode) around the block to
Pinehurst to alert my parents.
And my mom and dad came
running (not riding) around the
block to make sure I was still
alive. I had literally fallen off my
pedestal, but I still felt like my
neighborhood was in my corner.
And I somehow found a way
to “get back on the bicycle” and
slowly rode back home, care-
fully leaving the plan to tackle
bicycling on dreaded Seven Mile
Road for another day.
For a 9-year-old boy, the
ramifications of riding a bicycle
were huge. The world (or at
least the few blocks near my
house) was now open to me. I
could ride to the playground
nearby or to school friends’
houses. But it was not until
a few years later that I would
come to realize how much that
newfound freedom could mean.
When I was almost 12, my
parents, looking for a bigger
house for our growing family,
decided to move to Roselawn,
about one mile east and a half-
mile south of our home on
Pinehurst. I was not consulted
in this decision to leave my
cherished neighborhood. We
moved just after school was
out, so that I could finish sixth
grade at MacDowell, where I
had started in kindergarten.
This theoretically left me with a
whole summer to adjust to my
new surroundings, before the
start of junior high, which, for
me, most significantly, meant
an adjustment to a new softball
field … an arena where no one
knew who I was or had any idea
of my batting and fielding skills.
(Talk about pressure!)
With my mom’s encourage-
ment, I watched the field at
Bagley Elementary as it filled up
with kids in the early afternoon
of a nice early summer day. I
cautiously walked over with
my glove and bat. It was time
for my first pick-up softball
game at my new home field.
I looked around and saw 20
or 25 guys who I had never
met. I was truly a stranger in
a strange land. I stood there,
silently watching, as the cap-
tains each chose 10 players for
their respective softball squads.
As they reached the end of the
choose-up, I realized that I and
a few others were not going
to be picked that day to play.
There were no tryouts or audi-
tions. They picked the guys they
knew, of course.
As I watched the game
unfold, I saw a wide variety of
talent on that field. Some of
the guys were great fielders
Jeff London
PURELY COMMENTARY
continued on page 9
Jeff London still
loves his bike.
4 | JULY 21 • 2022