We had a garage sale yesterday, a chore we do infrequently because of the hassle. By all accounts, it was a success. We took in about $400, astounding on several fronts because there are few things we will miss or even remember selling in a few weeks.
One of the things I will remember is my old orange Schwinn. It was a hand-me-down from my dad, who is 6 feet tall. So it didn't ever really fit me. Still, as my second 10-speed, it represented the first real freedoms I had as a kid. I rode it all over the countryside, on back roads, along highways, up hills, down hills, chased by dogs. I'd ride 20 miles to a friend's house. I rode a little further to hang out with a girlfriend (worth the trip, I might say!). At one time it had a little odometer turned by a pin attached to a spoke. When I was 14, I rode more than 1,000 miles according to the odometer.
But then I started working part-time a year later. And soon enough I had a car, so the Schwinn was relegated to dust-collecting duties while I was too cool to ride it. Before heading off to college, I bought a cheap mountain bike and rode the heck out of it. Then I replaced that one with a nicer model and continue to ride it, swapping out the knobby tires for smooth ones.
After having a bike that fit me, it was hard to get back onto the Schwinn. Built in 1979, cycling ergonomics have advanced. The narrow handlebar, heavy steel frame and crossbar dangerously high when stopping convinced me it was time to let go. Hard to do, but it's just a bike.
But it was the bike I really learned to love bicycling upon. And I owe it, as much as a person can owe metal, rubber and plastic, a debt of gratitude for carrying me so far and keeping me going.
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