Wheels

My childhood ran on wheels. My first set of wheels was a red tricycle with red and white tassels on the handlebars. The street out front was a dead-end, with three rows of townhouses facing it in the shape of a C. A long median with grass and juniper bushes at the ends ran down the center of the street (“the island”), thereby making the street one big lap.

Once I ditched the tricycle for the Big Wheel, I took the party off the sidewalk and onto the street. With a Big Wheel, you must master the skid. You work up to top speed and then slam on the brakes for the perfect sideways skid. I think that’s my earliest memory of what it was like to feel cool: the Big Wheel skid.

I’m not sure why I would have ever given up the Big Wheel, but I suspect it had something to do with a certain blue Schwinn with a white banana seat. Once my older sister graduated to a 5-speed (5 speeds!), it was time for me to learn to ride the Schwinn. The method in my family was for my dad to hang onto the back of the bike seat and keep us steady as we pedaled around the island a gazillion times. I remember rounding the end of the island and seeing my dad standing off to the side. I was on my own. I could ride a bike!

Other wheels figured prominently in my childhood, especially roller skates. When they repaved the street on our block, the kids all hit the asphalt the minute we got the green light. It was like butter; I skated for hours, not a bump under my blue wheels. We raced, glided, and rolled around the island until the streetlights came on, the crickets began chirping, and our parents called us in. The wheels came to a stop and rested up for another day around the island.