My First Bicycle
By Hank Brandli (Melbourne, Fl.)
Kids nowadays get bicycles with training wheels just after they learn to walk. In the forties, kids were lucky to have either a tricycle or a bicycle. They moved from tricycle to bicycle as they got a little older.
My first tricycle was a hand-me-down from a cousin. I was about six years old. It had one big wheel with the pedals on it and two little ones in the back. I pedaled it all over the sidewalks of Walworth and Cornell Streets as well as on Cedrus Ave in Roslindale.
When I was seven, I moved closer to a bicycle (a “two-wheeler”) when my buddy Chuck, who was also seven, used his grandfather’s old English Raleigh 26 inch black bike with skinny tires. His family brought it from Woburn, Mass., when they moved to Beech St. near Washington St. in Roslindale. The Raleigh was awkward to ride. It had funny handlebars (that went down, not up) and a strange uncomfortable seat. It was a little too big for us to ride. Nevertheless, we managed to maneuver it up and down Walworth St. -- excited and yelling every time we accomplished it -- with one of us on the handlebars. My riding it then reminds me now of the scene in “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” when Paul Newman rode the bike to the song “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head “.
When I was nine, my family moved to Beech Street, across Washington Street over the hill past the Phineas Bates School. After my tenth birthday in Nov. 1947, I eagerly awaited Christmas, because I wanted a bicycle. There weren’t many bikes in those days, and my parents certainly didn’t have a lot of money. So, I just prayed and waited for Christmas.
Two weeks before Christmas, we went to buy a cut spruce Christmas tree. Dad and I walked up Beech Street and cut through the woods to the “gypsy” camp on the hill on Washington Street. We picked out a six or seven foot tree. It probably cost 25 cents. We then carried it home on our shoulders. Of course, Dad had the heavy end.
The family tree-decorating procedure began shortly thereafter. Every year, my Dad stood on a chair while he and my Mom expressed their opinions on how straight the tree was. I can still recall the green and red tree stand, the ornaments, and the silver and blue star that was on the top close to the ceiling. And the tinsel tossing, the multicolored lights (with constant replacements), and our special crèche are savored memories
At that time, much like most ten-year-olds today, I “didn’t quite believe” in Santa Claus any more. I used to “search “for where my parents might have hidden the presents. I had started to look around when I was 7-8 years old, and never had any luck. And on my 10th birthday in Nov. 1947, I was really searching around hoping I’d find a bicycle hidden somewhere. I never found it. Rather discouraged, I went to bed early on Christmas Eve. -- hoping against hope but convinced it was not to be.
I woke up about 5 o’clock in the morning. My sister and little brother were still in bed. There had been a beautiful snowstorm during the night. But my mind was elsewhere.
I crept down the stairs in the dark and peaked around the wall corner into the living room. “Lo and behold” there was a bicycle! Gleaming, glistening, glowing and luminous in the darkness with just the light from the street, my first bicycle was a breathtaking sight I’ll never forget.
I moved closer, my heart pounding. It was a blue and cream-colored Columbia 26 inch bicycle. It even had a light on the front. It had a little insert in the crossbar with a horn on it. The batteries were all in it to make the light and the horn work. A real beauty! And it had a guard for the chain and a kickstand. Before chain guards, you either wore knickers or wore bicycle clips so your trousers wouldn’t get caught in the chain when you pedaled.
My dream had come true I was beside myself! I couldn’t believe it!
I ignored the other presents. Where had it been hidden? I didn’t know. The bike must have cost $20-25. How did my Dad or my Mom get the money? How did they get it in the house from wherever they had it hidden -- in the snow, in the cold of night?
All my yelling woke everyone.
I soon got dressed. I just had to take it out for a spin, even though Beech St. hill was covered with snow. I took it down the slippery front stairs very carefully.
I rode up and down the snow covered street yelling “Yippee, yahoo”, just like I had won the Kentucky Derby or the World Series. I was elated!
After a while, I brought it back in the house and wiped it off. Now, finally, I would be able to ride with my friends Dave and Chuck all over the streets of Roslindale, West Roxbury, Hyde Park and beyond.
From that wonderful day on, I rode that bicycle for about 4 or 5 years with much joy. My grandfather, “Pop”, who lived in our house, was a fanatic about equipment and taking care of things. I was never allowed to leave the bicycle outside at night. I had to put it in the cellar. He instructed me to oil and wipe down the chain and the spokes and the rims, so that it glistened every time I mounted the beautiful seat to ride.
I remember one of our favorite tricks was arriving at the bottom of Kitridge Street on Cornell and then, from a dead stop, see if we could climb the steepest of all hills near our houses on Beech St. We did this often, in contest after contest. Just recently, while talking to my brother, he always felt Augustus Ave off Metropolitan was the steepest hill. He asked if I ever rode the Columbia 26 in. blue and cream bicycle up Augustus Ave. “No, I didn’t”. Metropolitan had some steep hills, but Kitridge was the steepest.
Several of us would ride our bikes down to Roslindale Square. We could pretty much ride anywhere in Rozzie without the fear of getting hit by a car or a truck. Traffic was minimal then.
One of our favorite trips was riding up to the water tower, the highest spot in the neighborhood and for miles around. We pedaled down Beech St., up Washington St., across the Parkway and strenuously up the narrow tar path, through the many birch trees, and finally to the water tower where we’d overlook the City of Boston. We loved doing that, or riding down the parkways (West Roxbury Parkway, Turtle Pond Parkway, the VFW Parkway), and just enjoying the scenery, freedom and the trees racing by.
One special long trip, when we even brought our lunch along, was riding our bikes up Washington St. and Rt. 1 all the way to Norwood Airport to watch the planes. I don’t know how far this was but guess that it was about 8 or 10 miles (one-way). Quite a journey! We just loved riding our bikes!
I rode that Columbia bike for years. And, thanks to my grandfather, it was always like brand new. Years passed, and I was now old enough to get my driver’s license. I didn’t ride my bicycle much any more. I decided, as a faithful brother, to give it to my brother, Paul, who was eight years younger.
My grandfather, “Pop”, who had passed on, had given me great training on how to care for my bicycle. So I turned it over to Paul, with detailed and “serious” instructions on its care. Big mistake! Paul never learned about taking care of things. Within a week, the fenders were removed and the horn insert cover between the crossbar was gone. And, the bike was often left outside in the elements on its side -- not even with the kick stand up. Later, I would see it and just shake my head.
But, after all, I was moving on to the automobile. My 26 inch prize blue and cream Columbia bike, manufactured and assembled by a company that started in business in 1877, was now history.
THE END
Thanks to Wilk and El
