March 3, 2004
Tricycle first set of wheels for tyke
By
Herald Editor
One birthday party later and our two-year-old owns her own mode of transportation. If the Barbie horn wasn't scary enough, she can almost reach the pedals.
Double parked in the living room is our daughter's first bike - a shiny red tricycle. While Ella hasn't fully grasped the physics behind pedaling, in no time soon I'll be chasing after my fleeting youth. Another example of parenthood without training wheels and limited braking ability.
Like most young drivers, Ella is really interested in the "options" adorning her new set of wheels. For starters, there are the pink and purple streamers hanging from the handlebars. Although they inhibit aerodynamics, Ella likes the pretty colors. The bike also sports a bell with a ring that would make Quasimodo cringe.
Toping the eye candy department, however, is the Barbie horn. Despite a demure pink hue, the horn resonates with a honk akin to a malcontent mallard. Ella loves the sound. In fact, she honks her horn almost as much as Mommy in the minivan - without all the low decibel grumblings.
Uncle Weldon pointed out, in typical deadpan fashion, that we could "poke a hole" in the Barbie horn. Obviously he didn't want to fall into the category reserved for relatives who buy seven-piece drumsets for Christmas.
When it comes to early March bike riding, it's hard to steer when you're stuffed into a snowsuit. In a few weeks, however, two important things could change: temperatures hit 60 and Ella touches the pedals. By the first day of spring she could be popping wheelies. Better yet, the Barbie horn could use its outside voice.
Now the bicycle that left an indelible mark on my childhood - many of them black and blue - was a silver single speed Huffy.
Growing up in the 1970s, the Schwinn Sting-Ray personified cool. Taking styling cues from custom motorcycle choppers, these bikes sported shifters, banana seats and ape hanger handlebars. Then there were the names: Fastback. Lemon Peeler. Manta Ray. Apple Krate. The Fonzie of Sting-Rays, however, was the Gray Ghost.
Unfortunately in the world of Happy Days, I was Potsie Webber. Which is why I rode a Huffy bike - named after the sound of a boy riding uphill wearing "husky" size Toughskin jeans.
Thankfully, what the Huffy lacked in style, it made up in brute force. If you mashed down on the pedals, you could leave a 15 foot skid mark on the driveway. It also proved its mettle - and metal frame - by surviving several Evel Knievel inspired jumps. Alas, the Snake River Canyon stunt (a big mud puddle beside the garage) bent the handlebars beyond repair.
Not surprisingly, ever since my off-road tricycle days, bikes have been an accident waiting to happen. BMX dirt bikes and 10 speeds; you name it, I've crashed it. I even managed to give myself a gravel road facial after tumbling off a bike - on the way to driver's training class.
Although 19 years older, I am hardly the wiser about bicycles. Just a few years ago, I took a header on the Vasa singletrack and dislocated my shoulder. At least now when I go out riding I carry two bottles of water and my health insurance card.
With the recent spring-like thaw, perhaps Ella can try out her new mode of transportation - or at least get a parental push. I thought about adding wood blocks so her feet could reach the pedals, but decided to wait. After all, I'll be chasing my fleeting youth soon enough.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com