Editor’s note: After taking a couple months off, Ted Blankenship reports that he is feeling much better and plans to resume his column on at least an occasional basis.
The guy in charge of maintenance where we live is a nice guy (he changes light bulbs too high for us to reach), and several times he has mentioned he’d like to buy the old Schwinn bicycle that has been leaning against our garage wall since the day we moved here.
It’s an antique of sorts, with a two-speed hub first available on Schwinns in the early 1950s. I bought it in the 1960s and rode it for exercise. Really!
I didn’t want to sell the Schwinn because I was sure I’d ride again despite my inability to keep the bike upright. It would have needed another two wheels to make that happen, and that would have made it a wagon.
So when the maintenance guy came by to fix the garage door, I just gave him the bike.
That got me thinking about how I used my bicycle in high school to minimize trouble I got myself into.
For example, a friend had a Model A Ford coupe that he drove around Eureka at one speed — fast. One night he loaded the car with all the guys who otherwise had nothing to do. There were two on each running board, three or so in the rumble seat, three in the car and one sitting on each of the fenders. I was on the right fender, hanging onto a headlight.
In those days, there was a bridge west of town over the Missouri-Pacific Railroad. South of it was a corn field. The highway was much higher than the corn field and there was a road of sorts leading down to the field. It was very steep, nearly vertical. My friend was going about 30 mph on the highway when he decided to swerve off the highway onto the road down to the corn field. Everyone held on but me. The momentum dislodged the headlight, and I went tumbling down the incline next to the wheels of the car.
My new sport coat was torn off along with a good deal of skin on my right cheek, but at least I didn’t get run over.
I got home about midnight and went to the bathroom to wash off the blood. My dad came in and wanted to know what was wrong. Not wanting to admit what I’d done, I said, “I had a bicycle wreck.”
Later, during my junior year, I was dating a freshman girl. A guy out of school had eyes on the same girl. He enlisted the services of a younger but very big friend of his to harass me.
Eventually the harasser goaded me into a fight at a party. We went outside and, not being a fighter myself, I relied on the movies for the proper etiquette. I assumed I was expected to remove my coat before our battle.
As I was doing that, the antagonist hit me with a right to the face. Blood spurted from my nose and lips and the fight was pretty much over.
I went home and straight to the bathroom to wash away the blood. Again, my dad came in.
“I had a bike accident,” I said.
Recently, a little unsteady on my feet at 95 years old, I fell down near our community’s restaurant. Luckily, some of the women who live near us are former nurses, and one of them patched me up. Still, I had cuts and tears on my skin, and a slash over an eye.
If my dad were still alive, I know what I’d tell him.
Contact Ted at tblankenship218@gmail.com.
