Family photos taken when I was growing up were never organized. Most ended up thrown loose into boxes. Later, they were scattered between my sisters and myself during mother’s last years. But I still see the picture in my mind.
I’m ten years old, straddling my brand-new pink and white Schwinn bicycle with the built-in electronic buzzer horn. I’m wearing my favorite dress: blue and purple checked with a full skirt propped up by a petticoat. I wore white anklet socks and dress shoes. Hardly what a young girl would wear to ride a bike today, but this was 1961, after all.
It was a hard-earned victory. When my widowed mother moved our family to Bloomington in 1960 to attend I.U., our new family doctor diagnosed me with a heart murmur. He thought it was caused by a missed case of rheumatic fever. The treatment plan: a hefty dose of daily penicillin, and mother was to keep me “quiet.”
Mom promised me a new bike when we moved to Bloomington, but the doctor told mother “No bike for now. We need to limit Sharon’s physical activity. I’ll keep monitoring her heart.” That treatment seems antiquated now, and daily penicillin caused me other health problems down the road, but that was the state of medicine then. Not sure why we didn’t consult a cardiologist. Maybe there weren’t any!
Visit after visit I’d ask the doctor if I could have a bicycle yet … and time after time I got a sympathetic look, but he’d shake his head no. When the doctor finally nodded yes, I got my pink Schwinn, and in the long-gone photo, my smile was as big as Texas.
I rode that bike everywhere, mostly by myself. My older sisters were teenagers by then and had more interest in boys than bikes. I rode in all kinds of weather, even snow. I loved pretending I was on big adventures.
During one of a zillion moves, that bike disappeared, but I continued to have other ones and enjoyed riding two-wheelers most of my life.
My husband Mike and I invested in new bikes several years ago. I insisted we buy quality bike helmets. too. As baby boomers, we didn’t grow up wearing helmets, and both of us found it hard getting used to them, but knew they were best for our safety.
Not long ago, I realized my bike had become a dust catcher. The helmet I insisted on buying hadn’t been worn more than a couple of times. I thought it over and told Mike I was going to get rid of my bike. The culprit was arthritis this time, not my heart. At 73, a chronically stiff back causes my balance to be iffy. I don’t trust myself on a two-wheeler anymore.
Here’s the best part of this story. My 12-year-old granddaughter Lilly has been begging for a new bike. She’s growing like a weed, and her “kid” bike wasn’t cutting it anymore. I wasn’t sure she’d settle for inheriting Grammy’s bike, but she’s thrilled with it. I have a picture of Lilly with the bike. She’s wearing leggings, a sweatshirt, and has on a bike helmet. Her clothes are more suitable for bike riding than my school dress, petticoat, and fancy shoes. But just like me in 1961, a new bike put a big smile on her face.
It’s hard to accept some of the changes and losses that come with aging, but there’s something satisfying about passing on the baton to a grandchild and seeing childhood joy expressed in a new generation. Happy Adventures, Lilly! Ride like the wind.
Sharon Mangas is a Columbus resident and can be reached at [email protected]. Send comments to [email protected].
