Bicycle Lessons
The first time I rode a bicycle was at Yosemite Playground in Eagle Rock. It was 1955, I was eleven years old, and an older kid who lived down the street showed me how. His name was Paul Moncur and I used to take piano lessons from his mother. Years later, I saw where he became a Police Chief for a city in the San Gabriel Valley. Paul was two years older than me; enough to convince me that he knew everything.
We both went to the same schools in Eagle Rock. We were in the same class at one point and I happened to look at his journal. Mr. Wilson taught agriculture and required all students to maintain a hand-written journal. Instead of writing in cursive, or longhand, like everyone else, he printed. He used upper and lower case and it was as neat and uniform as the pages from a published book. It was easier to write than cursive, easier to read, and different than anybody else. Since that day, the only thing I've ever written in cursive is my signature.
Paul and I walked the half block from my house to the park with the used $10 bicycle my dad had bought for me. My dad had painted it for me using our Electrolux Automatic Model XXX Canister Vacuum cleaner. By connecting the vacuum hose to the opposite end of the canister, air would blow out instead of being sucked in. You simply attached the Electrolux Glass Jar Paint Sprayer/Mister, filled the jar with paint, and you were good to go. I wanted British racing green but it turned out more like pickle green.
I had wanted a bike for quite a while but I didn't want a clunky-looking one like a Schwinn. I had held out for what we used to call a "ten-speed", or "English racer", with a narrow tubular frame, skinny tires, and no fenders. I knew absolutely nothing about bicycles but I knew it had to be one of those neat looking ones.
The type of bike I wanted was out of our price range, so my dad checked the classified ads in the neighborhood paper – The Eagle Rock Sentinel. Eventually, an ad appeared describing what sounded like a bike that might be acceptable. We drove over to Glendale to see it and at first glance it looked like an honest-to-god English racer. On further inspection, we saw that it had been made by JCPenney, probably when Warren G. Harding was in office. Rather than ten speeds, it had only three; the hand brakes were not original and had been added on; but it didn't look like a Schwinn – we took it.
When Paul and I got to the park, he walked me out to the middle of the vast expanse of grass that made up the football fields and the baseball outfield. I climbed on the bike and gave it a few tries. I had difficulty keeping the bike upright. It didn't look promising. Paul told me to get off the bike and give it to him. He then explained to me that if the wheels were rolling fast enough the bike would remain upright. To underscore this, he said the bike didn't even need a rider to stay upright once it got up a head of steam (centrifugal force, if you will). The sound of these words arrived at my ears, but my brain did not see why this information should be useful. Paul told me to stay still and watch as he took off running with the bike along side, after about fifteen strides he let it go. I watched as the rider-less bike made a complete circle, perfectly upright, and returned like a boomerang to Paul at the place where he had released it. Point taken.
My next physics lesson took place when I was challenged to a race by another neighbor hood friend. Phil Kent's family had been the lucky winners of the drawing held by the Shopping Bag. The prize being a mid-sized trailer that now sat in their backyard, never to be used. Phil and I agreed to use Addison Way as the starting line, race down Norwalk until we reached his house, a distance of 200 yards slightly downhill. He proposed that he would ride in the street and I would use the sidewalk on the north side of the road. I remember thinking that the lane assignments seemed odd somehow.
We were running neck-and-neck after about 100 yards when we approached the spot on Norwalk directly in front of my house, where the street turns sharply to the right. Being on the inside going through the turn, I moved ahead of Phil, but I was going too fast. I drifted out and ran directly into the curb-side tree in front of the Barfield's house. I saw the tree coming at me and the next thing I knew, I was on the sidewalk, unhurt, trying to get to my feet. My dad had heard the crash and had run out to see if I was alright. I had no cuts or bruises that he could see and he turned his attention to my bike. The handle bars were bent all the way forward but the most interesting thing was the front wheel. It was now in the shape of a perfect figure eight. My dad's theory was that I had managed to hit the tree trunk dead center with my front wheel, and the wheel collapsed like a shock absorber, diffusing the forward momentum. He claimed that were it not for this fortunate set of events, I would have been in an iron lung for the rest of my life.
In my senior year of high school, my cousin Richard talked me into riding our bikes from his house, down to the Beach and back. He had done it once before and said that it was fun. My dad dropped me and the pickle bike off at Richard's house at 7:00 am on a Sunday morning. We left pretty soon after that from 1015 Willow Donda Drive, in what was then called, La Canada. Willa Donda Drive is off of Angeles Crest Highway about quarter-mile north of where the 210 now sits. We rode about 29 miles (according to Google) to the Santa Monica Pier in less than two hours. It was an easy ride as we went via downtown Los Angeles which made virtually the entire trip down hill. The only obstacles were the old street car ruts along Santa Monica Blvd that hadn't been removed at that time. Maybe they're still there for all I know.
We took a break and I began dreading the idea of returning via the same route back to his house. I proposed that if we continued our ride to 125 Sunset Terrace in Laguna Beach, it would be mostly level, and if we got there before 5:00 p.m., we could get a ride home with my girl friend's family. Richard said, "Sure," which tells you all you need to know about Richard.
We started south staying as close to the water's edge as possible. We had no map and figured this strategy would guarantee that we would eventual run into Laguna. This strategy presented a problem when we came to a dead end at the Marina channel. We had to back track to Venice Blvd, and then go inland to get around the marina. Once past the Marina, we came back to the beach and things went smoothly until we got to Torrance.
We were on Pacific Coast Highway where it takes a sharp left south, just before you run into the Palos Verdes Peninsula. I suggested we maintain our strategy and follow the coast line around the peninsula. Richard said, "Sure." There were three major issues attached to my suggestion: (1) this would add about eleven unnecessary miles to our journey according to Google; (2) this would require a brutal uphill stretch on Western Ave, which almost finished us; and (3), most importantly, this would cost us a good two hours.
When we finally finished climbing Western to Pacific Coast Highway, we realized getting to Laguna by 5:00 p.m., would take everything we had left. Then again, who's to say they would wait until then? They had no idea that Richard and I were headed their way. What's that you say? Telephone? Never gave it a thought. The brain of a normal healthy male, under the age of eighteen, is not yet fully developed. This is one reason why our judicial system makes distinctions between minors and adults.
We made it the rest of the way without stopping once and riding as fast as our legs would take us. We headed down Sunset Terrace and pulled into the driveway sometime after four. Thank God they were still there. We covered a total of 108 miles if I figured it correctly with Google.
For the next four days, I could only go up or down stairs sideways. The muscles in my lower leg had become petrified rock. This was distressing news since on the upcoming Saturday, I was supposed to compete in the high jump at the City Finals. Missing the workouts during the week was not a concern because we never worked out anyway. Waking up Saturday morning as an invalid was another thing all together. The morning of the track meet came and my legs felt a little tight but seemed okay. I can only guess that the death ride had transformed the muscle tissue in my calves. I jumped higher than ever before.