The Sting Ray
I can only vaguely recall the nebulus, disconnected, mystical beginnings of my life in New York City, but a few things nonthless connect my past to the present and chart my course for the future. One was when I was a smallish boy - a few years older then a toddler - was always getting a cold just as I was getting over the old one. This had the adverse effect of keeping one hand tied behind my back and making the foreboding street life of fish smells, dog poop, grey fire hydrants, gritty sidewalks, nosy subway trains and the image of street gangs rulling their virtual niche among the crowded streets all the more onerous. Occasionally, I would find a playmate, but my toys, the tools of the trade, were lacking and helped decide who was going to follow and who was going to lead. The family was on the poor side at the time, so their was little money for such vain existentialism. Some of the fragel ones like a carefully painted tin circus truck that I brought along got the loving care of having its life snuffed out between a heavy heel and the sidewalk, its boxy shape reduced to a grotesque obloge pancake shape, it's dislocated paint forming circular tearful patterns in the ground. It was my wrenching loss but another notch in the gun for my commanding officer.
Then one day, I got a bright red, single speed bicycle - a two wheeler with coaster breaks with white training wheels. I was just able to reach the pedals, but contently made my way about the sidewalks at a bit more then walking pace, which to me was fast enouf to give me ilusion that I had a discreet distance between myself and the evel lurking at every doorstep. But on one sultry summer afternoon, my uncle, who lived with us at the time, came up to me from behind and upset the apple cart of my cozey life on the bike by stating its was time to be more of a man and take the training wheels off. What was an easy mindless stroll became a difficult act of concentration to maintain balance. But after many false starts, scrapes and bruses, and a sense there were unseen eyes taking in the spectacle, I got the hang of it and relished my new found freedom and the beginnings of some sort of manhood that was promised me. There was hope, that perhaps one day, I would measure up to my peers in the ever expanding universe. But that goal proved elusive, as they got bikes too. They were bigger ones that had five speed shifters, fancy spokes, mag wheels and lots of chrome.
Years later, the family fortune took a turn for the better and we traded the shoddy roach infested apartment and the concrete of the city for a house in the open spaces of the country in Southern Connecticut. We had a driveway that was at the bottom of a narrow road on long steep hill that gave me bad feelings when ever I looked at it. On the left side of the driveway was a low loosely thrown together stone wall, the kind farmers from a previous a century had used use to mark off their plots of land. I made friends with a next door neighbor who lived in a house that was futher back off in the woods. Right from that start, he challenged me from time to time to go to the top and go racing down to the bottom on a bike. He had done it before, but like the smashed toys of the city, there was a great difference between what he had over what I had to to use. I suddenly realised what was once a big bike was now just a little red bicycle, and it was now beginng to show its age: the paint was scratched, a few places had the beginnings of rust that blistered and pitted the metal frame, and the front wheel was getting decidedly out of round.
My friend had a decided advantage: his bike, a top of the line Schwinn Sting Ray Orange Krate was a fully apointed machine with five speed Stik-Shift, front spring fork, rear shock absorber, bucket seats, and front drum brake; chrome plated fenders, MAG sprocket, and rear calipers. It was the Maserati of bikes that could take on any hill.
But one day, having remembered my misfortunes in the city, I finally gave in to his urgings and went to the top with him. He confidently mounted his machine, cocked his front wheel to the side, then straightened her out, and with silky smoothness, glided effortlessly down the hill. Now it was my turn and my heart pounded from what looked like a monumental dive into the abyss. I was once again confrunted with an unknown. It was another test of manhood and a chance to expand my universe a bit more.
I in a feeble show of manliness, I paused for a moment to evaluate the situation. I was suddenly aware of the rustling sounds, birds chirping, and the wind gently blowing through the trees. It was though I had acquired an audience that was going to relish my failure. With a sweaty palms and a nervous twitching in my legs, I pointed the handlebars straight ahead and began my descent. Seconds into the start, I was already going fatster then the bike's limits and the hard, non-pneumatic tires made the frame creak and rattle with every hole and bump in the road.
When I was about half way down, and almost completely out of control, a huge dark green dump truck that had what looked like the remains of an old barn rounded a corner and started up the hill. There was scant room for both the truck and the bike, and I was having enouf trouble controlling and aiming the it even with the whole road to myself. And coulden't stop using just the rear wheel coaster breaks. When I applied them, they caused the bike to skate and fishtail widely. I was in trouble. At the last moment before I thought I was going plow into the truck at the bottom of the hill, I veered into our driveway.
My mental universe contracted and my vision became a series of graney but finely detailed images: bike, road, stone wall; handlebars cocked at a crazey angle, impact and a gut wrenching thud that was strangely disconnected from the actual impact. The bike few over the wall and landed upside down on the other side with the out of round wheel spinning widely and shaking the frame. I landed 15 feet futher on with only a trace of blood on my forehead, but a badly bruised ego that was filled with the smells and misfortune of life in the city. It was the last time I would test the limits on that bike.
More years pased, my voice lowered as I grew taller and entered my teens. My childhood had passed over like a warm summer day. The city and bicycle were long forgotten. We moved again further north into a larger house next to a bigger hill. As fate would have it, I got hold of a 2nd hand Schwinn Sting Ray Orange Krate, like the one my old friend had. I went all over the neighborhood with it, chatted and made new friends. One day the hill becknoned, and on my own volition, I went to the top. There were no onlookers as I cocked the wheel to the side, took in the view, streightened her out, and took the plunge. The run down was exhilarating, it felt as if I had grown wings as the air whistled on by. About half way down, feeling free at last, I let go of the handelbars and just leaned a bit to eather side to guide it. I was truly scared, but I made it to the bottom without a scratch.
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This also might have been worse since I came home from a Graveyard shift to find my house robbed and all of my dvd stolen, so naturally fear of home invasion is a big one for me.
mine was waking up in the middles of the night and hearing it *shudders* it took a looong time to go back to sleep.
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