The First Bicycle and the Western Flyer

It all came back to me yesterday when I saw my grandson show me his newly acquired skills riding a two-wheeled bicycle in his driveway. No training wheels required. Even today, this remains a major stepping stone on the rite of passage to manhood.

Will's bike is a new shiny Christmas present that has been waiting for him to have an appropriate place to learn to ride it. Hurricane Katrina took care of the old driveway and the rebuilding process has only now allowed the new drive to be available.

Will's six. The same age as I was when I got my first two wheeler. Mine was a bit different. The war was just over and bicycles were not readily available. In fact, there were none available in Moss Point or Pascagoula. Maybe there were just none my parents could afford, but that would never stop them. There was always a sign that needed painting and my father would take on whatever sideline of work necessary to provide us with things we really needed. Like bicycles.

So the nets were cast far and wide and a bike was found in Mobile. Uncle Pete and Aunt Mary negotiated the deal and delivered it on their regular Sunday trip. This was going to be the big (only) birthday present and presents didn't come any bigger than a new bike. Well, it wasn't quite new. But a Dad who was a wizard with paint could make it look that way and it would be the newest one in the neighborhood. But when it was unloaded from Pete's 1941 Ford, faces fell and hearts were broken. Not mine! Daddy's! It was a GIRL's bicycle! And in no way was that going to be acceptable!

All other activities stopped. The search was on. Within a couple of hours a piece of steel tubing or pipe was located that was approximately the size of the bicycle's frame. A welding machine was found. A welder was enlisted. (It is appropriate to remind the reader once again that this is a Sunday afternoon in November. No stores are open. People are spending their time with their families. Work is the last thing on their minds).

Tubing is cut and shaped. Welds are made and cleaned. Then ground smooth. Primer is applied. Painting is done to match the color of the fenders. Pin stripes and accents are done freehand by the resident artist. And all of this was still well underway when I went to bed that night. But the next morning, the paint was dry and the birthday present was ready. A new bicycle. A BOY's bike! And I was one happy kid. And my Dad was happier.

And that bike served me well until I made enough money to buy my next one, the Cadillac of all bicycles, the Western Flyer.

A lot of people think that Walmart is a recent innovation in marketing that has made our lives more convenient. How absurd!

Harold Monroe did the same thing for Moss Point more than a half century earlier (without the groceries - Albert Graham took care of that! And Mr. Graham delivered to the house!). There was NOTHING you could not get at the Western Auto store. Hardware, appliances, radios and later televisions, lawnmowers, knives, guns, and bicycles. Not just any bicycle. The coveted Western Flyer. With a bike like that, a boy could run his paper route in half the time, expand his route, increase his market, make more money, and be the envy of all his friends at the same time. There was no down side to this deal. It didn't get any better than this.

I remember the day as though it was yesterday. I finally had the money! The school day ended and I walked to the Western Auto without a thought because it was a one way hike. I'd be riding in style on the return trip. There was a small hiccup when we had to unpackage the bike and assemble it. And inflate the tires. And that put my paper route about an hour or so late. But it was a weekly paper. What would it hurt to wait another hour for week old news?

It was almost dark when I finally started my deliveries. In no time, I was riding under the street lights (on the streets that had them). For the other streets, I had a brand new light on the front fender. Another proof that I had made a wise investment. But for some reason, the longer I rode and delivered, the more difficult the ride became. And by the time I got home, I couldn't understand why my legs were so tired. It couldn't be the bicycle.

The last part of my paper route was through a new development called Griffin Heights. And the method of paving roads in those days was to lay down a coat of wet tar on the street and then pour loose gravel on top of the tar. And while I had been taking delivery of the Western Flyer, the city had been paving Griffin Heights. The more I rode on those dark, freshly tarred streets, the more tar affixed itself to my tires. Eventually, the tires and wheels were so caked with tar that it was scraping against the wheel supports. Remember me saying how happy my Father was with my first bicycle? He was equally unhappy with me that night!

I was telling my parents the truth about the streets. In the dark I never saw the tar. And in the light of my house, I could not only see it on my new prized possession, I could see it on my shoes and the bottom of my pant legs. I had that bicycle for years. It was the last bicycle I ever had as a child. And I loved it. But I NEVER got all the tar off of it!

That's the way I remember it.