Memories from the Curb

Memories from the Curb

by Marc Alley

Christmas 2006

What began in one house on Princeton Avenue ended in another, 1773 South Princeton Avenue to be exact. Lots of things were changing in the neighborhood but we were still too young to know that our Sears Toughskin jeans were low on style, but high on knee-rip-out value. That incredible Christmas all of us boys got 3 shiny Schwinn maverik one-speeds. What possessed my parents to actually get us a cool gift like that instead of Sombreros, leprechaun socks and lederhosen from the Alps? I’ll never know. Maybe we were driving them so nuts with our stir-crazy cabin fever. Summer seemed so far away as we took our first spins around the block in the frigid weather. I know I somehow learned to ride a bike, but once you know how it’s as if you’ve always known; walking anywhere after that becomes so plebeian.

Sure, we’d had some experience with moving contraptions. The thing I’d really previously wanted was a toxic-waste colored Green machine . . . all the cool kids had them and the fact that you could actually steer a conveyance with a black knob on a stick seemed like a completely legitimate and practical idea at the time. And come on, it was so cool-looking, like a combination of Steve Mcqueen’s mustang and the Joker’s rocket- powered sled combined. The marketing guys at Mattel really had me pegged. However, later testing with friends’ Green Machines and other Big-Wheel products showed that an injected-molded, 1-inch wheel keeps sliding down a hill even if you stop peddling and hold it in place; and steering with said knob is really counter-intuitive at 25 miles-an-hour on the steep grades. The Big Wheel’s downhill handling was clearly superior if you kept your feet off the pedals, although a good pull on the yellow, right-wheel brake would generally induce a heart-pounding, skin-removing tail slide.

In contrast, the Schwinn could actually take you places (other than downhill) and I immediately recognized it as a symbol of freedom. It’s weird because I can’t seem to remember the colors of the bikes, the colors morphing in my mind from silver to black and gold. It didn’t really matter when you’re a kid, although I seem to remember that one of my brothers’ was gold. In those days, nobody but retards and lame-os wore a helmet, but I distinctly remember Ben’s thick helmet-shaped hairdo; it probably saved his life a few times when his head was bouncing on the curb. Kids nowadays sure are wimpy with all their elbow pads and protective gear. A common toy in my day was a steel, pencil-shaped dragster that you’d insert a plastic pull string into a gear and pull. The dragster would take off at Mach 1, shooting a beautiful arc of real sparks that would probably end up in a pile of greasy rags. Looking back it really makes you understand how lawyers have wrecked our country.

You see, my brothers and I were preternaturally creative and no longer just satisfied with riding back and forth from Emigration Market for Doritos. We were ready to take our bikes to the next level. The drag-style banana seats of the seventies were no longer fashionable, and BMX was emerging on the scene. I clearly remember saving up money to vaingloriously switch out my Banana for a little rubber BMX-style seat, with Ben following suit. I seem to remember that Brandon, always the penny-pincher, stayed with the sturdy and time-tested Banana design.

We were ready to fly, maniacally pedaling down the street toward a piece of particleboard propped up on a few bricks. The first contestant hit the particleboard and it immediately shattered, causing my front wheel an unsatisfying whump as it hit the pile of bricks sending me in a vicious endo. Ben ate some gravel as well, with Brandon whipping around the collision in an evasive maneuver and a Parthian shot, “Ha HA!.” It was back to the drawing board to build a new jump ramp, one that would handle that first explosion of monster-truck force when your front tire hits the apex of the board. We all put our heads together to utilize our best skills. I, leader and rogue thief would kaife the needed building materials. Ben and Brandon would stack the two bys and lend engineering know-how.

Brandon was demoted from Assistant Engineer to Chief Stacker when the jump fell apart every time you hit it. Brandon loyally stacked the two bys and propped the board many times until Ben accidentally hit the jump too early while Brandon was still stacking and propping. With sage adjudication I resubmitted my petitions to Engineer Ben that the jump needed a redesign and he must pay a stiff penalty for Brandon’s head wound. He must hug the aggrieved party and cleanse the wound with the hose. The cut was hidden under his hair and mother needn’t know of the injury. Ben returned with the fresh idea of nailing the two bys together and then nailing the board to the top. Twenty minutes later, a nest of snarled undriven nails protruded but the lump stuck together. It was ugly, but oh joy! . . . it worked. We could now concentrate on jumping dynamics and physics.

The trick was to pull back on the handlebars at the right moment. Beginners would inevitably go rigid in fear, lock up their front arms and spasmically jerk the handlebars too late. This would end in a bone-jarring endo as the full impact of the jump would shiver through your front tire, making you lose control and stability, spectators rolling their eyes in scorn as the moment of anticipation was wasted, like a black cat dud that never explodes. Getting your weight back in the saddle and staying loose was all-important. With an extra bit of juice on the back tire, you could really rotate the front of the wheel up and land with back tire down first, like the BMX kids jumping their bikes in the movie E.T., in momentary wheelie-flight with control and power. It was really awesome when you got the timing right.

Finally, something macho we could do better than the other neighbor kids who would endless harass and beat on me for playing the violin or going to bed early. Flying through the air you felt like Evil Kneivel rocketing over the Grand Canyon. It wasn’t always roses, however. We’d get more and more daring trying to get more air, and it was easy to over-rotate and land on your back or your head. All of your senses are really alive when you knock out a tooth on the curb or crash into a 100-year-old oak tree.

Those twin-welded steel Schwinns were so tough though and the frames never got bent or twisted even if you bent a wheel. It was really amazing that the only maintenance they really needed was a spray of WD-40; and the chains never came off like the ten-speeds.

I also remember riding down the sloping east bench to the 7-11 by East High to get a slurpee. Sometimes we’d even ride all the way to Crossroads Mall with the wind in our hair, gently snaking left and right, never pedaling. The simple reverse braking never needed adjustment either, unlike the modern cable brakes. You could really whip out the rear of the bike and do a cool stop in the dirt.

Those bikes gave us such a high degree of freedom and independence and yet it gave us something that we could do together as brothers. I’m sure Brandon and Ben loved them as much as I did. I knew that Brandon appreciated the egalitarian nature of bikes, because he could easily keep up with us on a bike whereas he’d always be last in line as a land-lubber. I’m sure they eventually got donated to Deseret Industries, but I’ll never forget them. It was a golden time for me of endless summer days and cruising under the tree-lined streets.