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