my first bicycle...the Cactus Rose

Good Morning,

It was a beautiful Spring weekend around these parts. I thought you might enjoy a story about my first bicycle. The Cactus Rose...

The Cactus Rose

A common theme in men’s magazines goes like this.

A boy’s bicycle is sacred
A boy’s bicycle defines him
Riding your bicycle for the first time (not a miniature, learner-bicycle and not with training wheels) is comparable to taking a spin in the family car when you finally get your driver's license.

Perhaps I don’t need to point out here my brother’s first solo ride ended with a forehead plant into the neighbor’s mailbox and a trip to emergency care for stitches.

This is a story of a girls’ bike. The Cactus Rose. (My first love and first real possession)

One Sunday during brunch, my mom came a across a sale in the circular ads. Mom said it was time for me to have a bike. I was five and to mom’s credit she’d noticed me coveting my older brother’s bike, a yellow Huffy with black cruiser seat large enough for doubling and the befuddling bar down the middle that made it a boys’ bike.

I held onto my doughnut waiting for my good fortune to vanish. It was not my birthday. Not even close. Still, somehow that very next week I found myself in the Gold Circle Department Store clinging to the wrinkled newspaper clipping narrowing down the purchase. Mom held my hand as we stood before the double-tiered rack piled thick with choices. These were boys’ bikes each equipped with chunky tires and BMX racer padding.
What would my bike look like I wondered? A girls’ bike did not sound hopeful. The only two models on the sales floor…promised purple with flowers and a basket…

Mom placed the order. The Cactus Rose, the hot item, was not on the shelf.

The Cactus Rose arrived in a box. The scourge to father’s who work in banks (and very rarely with tools) everywhere she arrived “partially assembled.” My dad soon discovered why my lady was so cheap. She had parts and directions that didn’t fit. She was at best loose and unwieldy at his first blushing sweat stained efforts. It was a day of nerves the day of her operation. I prayed and held my breath through each “son of a brick!” and frustrated “well hells bells!” I sat rocking on the shaky-legged picnic table. By the time Dad was standing her up and giving her the walk around I could care less about where her awkward handgrips finally rested (molded finger grooves pointing skyward) I just wanted to sit on her!

My Cactus, she was a looker! Silky cream frame and a slender banana seat, she had lipstick red handle bar grips and racy red fenders. Dad adjusted the seat just so and before the water could dry off the driveway from multiple car washings we hit the road pedaling!

Cactus Rose road steady and true to my push and laid down just enough rubber to announce my arrival when I applied the brakes. Looking back now I can say she was a 1970’s Huffy coaster bike.

From a man’s (or boy’s) perspective a first bicycle is about independence, joy, and freedom. It’s about the wheeling the bike out from behind the Christmas tree to cries of SURPRISE!

When I saw the Cactus Rose fully assembled for the first time, I felt relief. No tassels from the handle bars. No basket or bells.

A girls’ bike is more complex. It’s about partnership and imagination.

Regardless of perspective what we all share is this: imagination figured into our bike riding. It’s what fuels our memories.

I jumped on the Cactus Rose and pedaled the three doors down to my best friend Lora’s house to see if she wanted to ride bikes. To “ride bikes” required no further destination. No plans. It meant to hit the road with nothing but the wind in your hair and jelly shoes (a girly plastic mold slipper Lora favored) on your feet.
We were CHiPs on patrol! Side-by-side we looked out for roller skating thieves robbing banks or punks breaking into cars. Never minding that “the beat” we had to patrol ended with the STOP sign at the end of the block.

The Cactus Rose transformed into a speeding Supercycle or cruising patrol motorcycle as the dispatcher put out the call…

http://images.chips-tv.com/redir.cgi/Sounds/CHiPsgas.wav

“Attention all San Diego freeway units we have an 1180 involving a gas tanker Southbound San Diego Freeway. All responding units identify…”

“L.A. Seven Mary 3 and 4 responding.”

“10-4 Seven Mary…”

RRRRRRmmm Rmmmmm

(cue 70’s disco music)

The late 70’s television offered the promises of CHiPs! (California Highway Patrol)

What does a young girl learn from watching Officer Poncherello?

I learned to pull into the garage and say “my motor needs repairs!”

I learned when to call it a day…

The Cactus Rose with her arms wide and outspread flipped easily and exposed her underside. She provided a gentle teacher to my wrenching. (Wrenching, when a rider provides their own maintenance and repair). Eventually, the Cactus Rose moved to the corner of the garage then retired to the attic for the glamour of my first 10 speed. I lost the desire to wrench. I’d discovered just enough mechanical ability to take this bike, a maroon Schwinn, apart…but none of the vigor and excitement for putting it back together.

This bike snickered at popping wheelies, riding down the steps to the L.A. Coliseum (i.e., descending the neighbors steep rocky driveway). I could find freedom and discipline but none of the fun and imagination. I took no pride in my ride.

Freeze frame flashes through the 70’s and 80’s I can see pictures of Dykes on Bikes, women who have organized around the ideals of empowerment and supporting public philanthropy. Often seen leading the parade at gay PRIDE events these riders embody the spirit of the Cactus Rose. Her legacy is power and giving.

Today, I celebrate bikes from a far. My world has taken a different spin and left me the challenge of finding the pleasure in stationary cycling. The lightness and imagination I conjure up as I pedal is the Cactus Rose’s greatest gift.

Happy Monday,

Amanda "Officer Alo Baker"