Trespassers

My arrival to the big leagues of bicycle ownership came on my 10th birthday, in January 1964. I was now the proud owner of a brand, spanking new three-speed bicycle! I would no longer be lumbering about the neighborhood in the saddle of the battleship sized, single speed with lots of chrome Roadmaster. Well, the new bike sported many chrome features as well. Front and rear fenders, headlight, spring loaded trap… Wait, did I say headlight? Yes! Also, a taillight! Both powered by a generator with a small wheel that rolled along the white sidewall of my front tire. The color of the bike was gold and on the frame beneath the seat were four broad silver, horizontal stripes. Between each stripe was a large silver letter – A M F. I am forgetting to mention the gold and chrome chain guard with the word “Hercules” written in cursive with red letters. A saddle bag and chrome tire pump completed the accessories. Lots of chrome and doodads, but even so, it was a much sleeker looking velocipede than the Roadmaster. I took it for a short ride, just long enough to test each of the speeds. But it was January, with near freezing temperatures and several inches of slushy snow on the ground. I would have to wait a bit to go on a longer ride.

Over the next 18 months, it became the three-speed began to manifest symptoms of being a lemon. The narrow tires were prone to getting flats. Having the pump clipped to the frame was quite fortuitous and I kept the saddle bag stocked with a wrench, rubber patches and a tube of glue. The bulb in the headlight would burn out – I didn’t often ride the bike at night, so it wasn’t from overuse. The cable for the speed control snapped and it required a week’s stay at the bike shop to be repaired. Somehow the threads in the right pedal stem became stripped and the pedal fell off, requiring an even longer stay in the repair shop.

It was late June, school was out, and I had no mode of conveyance. I was reduced to relying on shanks mare to get around. So, when my mother said I needed to “run” over to the Birchwood Delicatessen to get either some cold cuts, or sour cream, I don’t really remember exactly what, but what I do recall is it was a hot day and perishable items were involved, and speed was of the essence. I asked if I could borrow my brother’s bike to ride to and from the deli.

“It’s Ken’s bike. You need to ask him,” replied my mom.

When I asked, Ken offered to give me a ride over. He had one of the Sting Ray bikes with a banana seat that had plenty of room for a passenger. I hopped aboard and off we went to the Birchwood Delicatessen, exactly a mile from our house. A whole mile, distances seemed greater when you are a kid.

We rode through the Cherry Hill School complex and struck Cadmus Avenue. After riding about 200 yards from our home, we encountered the steep grade of Cherry Hill. Again, when you are a kid, it was the equivalent of Mount Everest, so we both dismounted and Ken walked the bike up the hill. Reaching the summit of the hill, climbed back on the bike and began to roll down the back side of Cherry Hill. This is where the adventure begins.

On the downward grade, instead of coasting and braking, Ken began to pedal like a mad man. I yelled in his ear, “What are you doing!”

Ken’s reply was a maniacal laugh, and he pedaled harder. I wrapped my arms around his waist as we jetted down the hill. I didn’t close my eyes, because I was desperately looking for modes of escape. The road took a sharp turn to the right and I was terrified we weren’t going to make it. That we were going to be embedded in the living room wall of my friend Billy Stewart’s house, which was right at the curve.

Ken pedaled furiously through the curve and fate was kind, we made it without mishap. But the road took an even sharper, 90 degree turn to the left. I knew we weren’t going to make that one. I was yelling for Ken to slow down. He just giggled.

Reaching the intersection, Ken maybe realized I was right. We were going too fast to make that sharp of a turn without disastrous consequences. He made a slight correction to the left, heading straight toward a hedge surrounding a house at the intersection. I thought he was going to try and soften the blow by running into the hedge versus getting most of our skin erased by the pavement. A husband and wife were doing yard work at the house. I envisioned them bandaging our wounds and driving us home with the wrecked bike in the trunk of their car. Somehow, Ken spotted the narrowest of openings in the hedge and we rocketed through it, unscathed. We passed between the startled husband and wife at the speed of light, Ken now aiming the bike to a wider opening in the hedge. I heard a woman’s voice screech “Trespassers!” But we were safely out of the yard, on the sidewalk, speeding away from the angry couple. Ken never stopped laughing throughout the whole yard ordeal.

The rest of the trip to the deli was uneventful. Wisely, we both decided to take a different route home, about a half mile longer than the wild ride route. Ken and I made it home safely, the perishables hadn’t perished..

The home whose owners we terrorized was along my paper route. Fortunately, they were not customers of mine. Every time I walked past, if they were working in the yard, I would be preoccupied rolling a paper, head down, making no eye contact. Initially, not too long after the incident, they would eye me suspiciously. But no questions were ever asked.