schmalz's log 2012 Part 12

Since this is the Holiday season, I am eschewing talk of my training and instead sharing with you an obsession from my youth. What you see above is page 414 from the 1977 Sears Christmas catalog, an image so familiar to me that even today I can close my eyes and recall every visual detail of its offset printed glory. I was nine years old, and the bike on the bottom of the page became the obsession of my working life. This was the banana-seated carrot that dangled in front of me as I shoveled ton after ton of sand for my dad's precast concrete company. (I earned $1 each time I cleaned up after the dump truck that delivered sand for the concrete mixer—child labor laws back then weren't quite what they are today.)

The "Single-speed Boy's and Girl's Bike with flat black steel frame and banana-style saddle" caught my eye because it was the right color combination (I was then and still remain totally obsessed with paint on bikes) and pragmatically priced at $59.88. The other bikes featured were more expensive and since I was only pulling in one to two dollars a week at the time; would take me about ten extra weeks to afford the next cheapest bike—the Evel Knievel model—which I didn't particularly want as I knew I couldn't pull it off—and only jerks seemed to ride that Evel Knievel bike anyway.

Page 414 soon became my motivational shrine. I pored over the bike's details: its reliable coaster brake, its wide knobby tires, the black waffle handgrips and its sporty 40 pound weight. I shoveled my way through winter and spring, keeping my cash stockpile in my Miami Dolphins Helmet bank. I counted and recounted my money with each dollar I added. I fantasized about riding my motocross-inspired mount over jumps, I skidded to a stop in a cloud of imaginary dust and I gave rides to girls on my ample banana perch.

And when I finally reached the summit of mount $59.88, I went with my dad to Sears to pick up my prize. We loaded it into the back of the family F150 and took it home. It was spring and there were deep, muddy puddles of Iowa rain everywhere, but I wasn't going to wait. I rode the dirt path that encircled our house until I could ride no more, and then I put my bike away into our dark garage. I reluctantly went inside for dinner and yearned for the moment when the daylight would come and I could ride my bike once more.

I still enjoy bikes to this day and I often see ones that I would love to ride or own, but none of them could hope to mean more to me than my black and yellow obsession. My 43 year old heart simply cannot muster the desire to match the power of the yearning of my 9 year old self. No bike will ever mean more to me, and I'm afraid that I will be able to recall the image of page 414 until I cannot recall anything at all.