Freedom

Freedom  exists at different levels

And in different forms

And makes unique advantage of selected realities.

When my brothers and I were young, we were as free as the wind.  Not in the ways of today, but in the ways of the world that we all dream of as kids. 

We lived outdoors, spring, summer, fall, and even winter.  We worked outdoors, we camped and hiked, backpacked and fished, raced and hunted.  No day passed that we didn’t live to be going somewhere; anywhere.

Most of that going included bicycles.  Now we didn’t have the bikes of today, no spring suspension, no wide tires for gravel, no soft hand grips and 27 gears.  Nope, what we had was a metal frame and leather seat; two tires and a rack to haul papers; a pedal set that connected a worn chain to knife edged gears that were limited to just five.

For joy we added old playing cards with clothespins to sound like a motorcycle at full revs.  For light at night we held a flashlight and rode single handed, at least until we could afford a small generator that was spun by the tire and made a feeble orange glow to ride by.

We worked on those things, we played on them too.  On them we flew, and we lived.  We broke free of the world and the things that dragged boys down; things like school, and baths, clean clothes, and rooms. 

Every morning started with 100 papers or more, rolled into tight tubes and rubber-bands.  Stuffed upright into a canvas bag that lay across the rack behind the seat like a saddlebag across a horse’s rump. 

Papers that on Sundays weighted over 5 pounds each and required more than one trip just to throw them all.  In the rain, the papers were further wrapped in plastic bags.  And we pedaled around town, to each of our customer’s houses and lobbed papers up onto porches, out of the rain. 

There is skill at work there.  Bike moving laterally at up to 20 miles an hour, legs pumping to keep the speed up on the slight rise, handlebars held straight as you turned your whole torso around to reach back and down to grab a paper, pull it up out of the nest of companions, swing the arm up and back, and lob the missile through the end of the porch and its opening where the wisteria vine hadn’t covered, or fling it over the hood of the car, but under the carport, or around the Christmas ornaments.

Not that tens of thousands of other boys didn’t develop the same skills.  But skill it was and it bonded us in brotherhood one to the other.  And we learned pride, and confidence from the development of it.

We lived on those bikes.  Mornings on the paper routes, after school over to our friends and home before our parents got off of work; on holidays and vacations out to the swimming hole, or to the next town to do some swapping, or maybe hit the county fair and some carnival rides.  Afternoons with fishing poles, mornings with shotguns, heck, they even served as ambulances when needed.

I grieve for the kids I see today; driven to and fro, no matter the reason or need.  Sequestered in steel and trapped in front of a movie screen.

They don’t know the wind in their hair, or the rush of blood as they hurdle down a steep hill, ever-faster at the cattle guard, or corner that must be negotiated (at pain of personal injury) on reaching the bottom.

They will never know the wonder of a pebble filled scab; or of a toe jammed in spinning spokes; or the abrasions of palms on street.

They will forever be tainted, with an impression that riding is about Saturday with the family in the park, or a sport for professionals, or (God forgive) “spinning” class at the gym.

  

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved