“Mom! Can we go yet?” My brother Paul pounded on the bathroom door.
“No! What is the big hand pointing at on the clock?” I am sure Mom was holding her head behind the locked door.
“Um...Mark! What is the big hand pointing at?”
“Mark says between the ten and the eleven.” Paul was still banging on the bathroom door.
Realizing she was not going to get any peace until she settled this issue, Mom opened the bathroom door. Paul and I took a step backward, eyes opening wide.
“What have I told you?” She stood there with her hands on her hips. “What time can you go outside?”
“Nine o’clock.” I knew this one.
“It’s not nine o'clock yet. When the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand in one the nine you can go outside.”
“It’s time! It’s time!” We heard Mark open the kitchen door and start down the back stairs.
“Bye Mom.” Paul and I headed for the back door as fast as we could.
In our house, we were not allowed to leave the house before nine in the summer. This rule was superseded when we were older with the “No one outside until you practice the piano” rule. When you are seven years old and get up at the crack of dawn, waiting until nine o’clock was impossible. All we could think about were the daylight hours flying past. Our parents had a good reason for their rule: our big-wheels.
With the big plastic wheel in front, two little wheels in back, and the chopper handlebars we rode in style. Mom liked them because speed was not an issue. We liked them because they were loud. When we rolled down the gangway between our two-story brick house and the neighbor's house we knew what we sounded like--a biker gang. Hitting the front sidewalk, our caravan of three big wheels turned to the right. All the moms on the block had the same rule and as we rolled on we picked up more riders. On a good Saturday morning there would be six or seven of us, all strung out in a line.
We had one rule, enforced by all the moms. There was one thing you could do that would result in a loss of riding privileges. Riding in the street was not allowed. “And then he got hit by a car” ended the story we all knew. It was enough to keep us on the sidewalks and in the alleys.
Rolling on the sidewalk toward the far corner everyone began jockeying for position. The Patterson Street Big Wheel Derby had begun. We passed on the left and we passed on the right. The more aggressive riders even passed on the grass. NASCAR could have learned driving techniques from us as we bumped and nudged each other into bushes and trees. Brushing someone into the rose bush at the corner of our block was a big-league move in our opinion. The timid among us hung back rather than get blocked into the thorns.
Turning the corner our noise level increased on the rougher alley concrete compared to the smoothed concrete of the sidewalk. The wider alley also allowed us to ride three or even four across. Now the race was on and I was stuck in the second row. There were seven of us and I was not going to come in last again. We roared past the halfway point, Steven’s garage. His dad waved to us as we passed. My brother Mark got his front wheel into the groove running down the center of the alley and he veered to his left. Bumping into Joe, both of them slowed to avoid the drain pipe on Mr. Jackson’s garage. He did not wave to us as we passed.
Seizing my opportunity I stuck my front wheel into the now open space in front of me. The only girl in our gang Samantha did the same. She let go of her handlebars with one hand and gave me the move-over symbol. I shook my head determined to grab the lead. Paul and Steven accelerated on our right. I was now riding third, a split second in front of Samantha. But I had a decision to make.
The end of the alley drew closer and we all had to make a tight right-hand turn onto the sidewalk. From experience, we knew this had to be done single file. With Samantha tight on my left, I could not afford to slow or show any hesitation. She had nerves of steel and would not think twice about riding me into the fence at the turn.
Paul reached the corner first and whipped through the turn, then disaster. Steven slowed and my big wheel rode over one of his back wheels bringing us both to a stop. Samantha powered through the turn ahead of us and Mark and Joe followed as we stood to untangle our machines. Even Jose passed us, and he always finished last because he was only six. We got untangled and roared around the corner, coming down the sidewalk neck-to-neck.
A squirrel darted in front of Paul and then stopped dead. Paul nudged his big wheel to the left. The squirrel unable to make up its mind darted back and forth before bounding back to the grass. It was too late for Paul. His front wheel turned sideways and he shuddered to a halt, half on the grass but right in front of Samantha. The two of them tangled up, they would not place in this race. Mark and Joe flew down the last twenty feet to the final turn, followed by Jose who had his hopes up for a third-place finish. Steven and I were still side by side, matching each other pedal for pedal.
At the final corner, Joe put on a short burst of speed and cut Mark off. Mark swerved into the grass as Joe slid around the corner into the final half-block stretch. Jose was now second, with the rest of us bumping and grinding around the corner. Paul got sorted out first and flew into third place followed by Samantha. I was fifth, a bare second ahead of Steven who was gaining on me with each revolution of his pedals. Mark, accepting his last-place finish was bring up the rear.
Stepping off her front walk right into Joe’s path, our neighbor Mrs. Thomas changed destiny that day. Joe swerved into the bushes in front of her house to avoid taking her down and had to listen to her lecture on safe riding. Jose blew past him to win. His shriek of joy at finally winning the Patterson Block Big Wheel Derby had to have been heard for miles. Paul finished second, Samantha third. But Steven and I still had a house to go. Fourth place was still in play even if his front wheel was ahead of mine.
I had one last trick up my sleeve, a dirty trick but one I did not hesitate to use. I started drifting toward him, my front pedal inching closer to his exposed ankle. He had a choice to make. He could run the risk of getting his ankle skinned on my pedal or he could slide onto the grass. It was impossible to ride as fast on the grass as someone on the sidewalk, fourth place would be mine. But my victory was snatched from in front of me when my wheel hit a crack and I lost control and rolled in the opposite direction. It was all he needed to inch further in front and take fourth.
I came in fifth that day ahead of Mark and Joe, who was still trying to untangle his big wheel from Mrs. Thomas’ bushes. We replayed the race using our hands to recreate our exploits, our faces beaming with pride.
“Again!” shouted Paul and we scrambled into our big wheels. Nothing could be better than this we thought.
A year later Steven got a bike and Paul knocked himself unconscious trying to ride it.
Comments
Post a Comment