Wednesday, September 1, 2010
About three to four buildings south of Leed's Theater stood our Western Auto. It was where you could buy tires, rakes, wheel barrels, nails, bolts, hammers, mowers, and many other instruments of daily living. Near the Main Street widow of this store, I would spend a lot of my time looking at the row of bicycles. The row started with the little kids bikes with training wheels; moving through the girls bikes...those without the nut cracking middle bar; to the 26-inch...red and white...chromed handled bars with red and white streamers...Western Flyer. It was a beauty. White wheeled tires, a luggage rack over the back wheel fender, a reflector on the back, and it had a light with horn on the handle bars. A seat, half red, half white, was balanced on two large springs which appeared to give the rider the promise of an exquisite ride. My mind would drawl thinking of the anticipated adventures on this amazing machine. Of course my legs would not reach the peddles from the seat. I could ride one of those little kids bikes, or even a girl's bike, but you could not be caught dead on either one. What was a 4' 7", 98 pound weakling to do? Grow I thought. I would have to eat more Cheerios's. What growing pains it was.