I think we all remember our first bikes, or at least the first with which we really conquered the neighborhood. Mine was blue, freckled with rust, with a big banana seat and ape hanger bars, great for popping wheelies and riding hands-free. I wrote a poem about it once but that was nothing compared to this beautiful contribution to today’s ProJo.
That bike I mentioned gave me my first taste of independence on the day I rode it 4 miles into town without my parents knowing. I must have been 8 or so. It was also under me, then on top of me, the first time I took a gnarly fall, thanks to a wonderfully steep street a block from home and a stone in the middle of the street.
It would be fun, I think, to hear other people’s memories of their first bikes. Bring ’em on!