When I was growing up we lived about a half a mile from town, which to us kids was the equivalence of nirvana.
As cold winters eventually manifested into warm summer days, my older brother and I were eager to make the trek into town on our bicycles. There, we united with friends, made our way to the ice cream shop and otherwise enjoyed the much-admired lives of city kids.
While there were many times I enjoyed the two-wheeled freedom, my biking experiences were often met with peril. One such incident resulted in a brief accident report in the local paper. The headline read “Youth injured in bike-truck collision.”
In truth, I carelessly turned my bicycle into the path of the truck, which sent me and pink bicycle flying. I was taken by ambulance to a nearby hospital, but only suffered scrapes and bruises. The combination of small town chatter and the newspaper coverage was humiliating, but after a bike repair, I was back on the streets.
A favorite stop in town was the library, where I could indulge in summer reading, air conditioning and refresh with a few sips from the water fountain. The back of the library featured shade trees and round stone tables with attached benches, which was also a cool place to hang out.
One afternoon, clad in my jellies, I was maneuvering around the tables on my bike when my pedal slipped and my foot was slammed into the stone bench. This particular mishap would end with eight stitches and a scar that is still visible on my right foot.
A few years later, undeterred by my biking failures, I was making my way down a hill on a city street. My wheels were met with some loose gravel, and I ended up face first on the pavement. I was unable to take my dance photos scheduled for the next weekend.
Perhaps the last time I rode a bike I was in college on a bike loaned from a friend, seeking fresh air and exercise. I rode around the streets of my south side Des Moines neighborhood where I rented a one-bedroom apartment. At some point, the bike’s chain came loose, and I was unable to realign it. I had to walk the bike the entire way back — sweaty, thirsty and angry I let my friend know I wouldn’t be borrowing the bike again.
As tumultuous as my own biking experiences have been, it’s been a joy as a parent to watch our children ride. When they were much younger, they learned with assistance from their dad how to pedal without training wheels in their grandmother’s cul-de-sac. Those are smiles I’ll never forget.
We recently came to the realization the three children’s bikes hanging in our garage had been outgrown. Having learned Mojo Cycling accepts some used, quality bikes for repair and redistribution to St. Nick’s Christmas Club, I knew where we’d be donating our old bikes and getting an upgrade for our son.
To say our experience was exceptional would be an understatement. The owner, Joe Urias, took special notice of our son and helped ensure he was getting the bike he wanted. After a few test rides, he decided on a mountain bike, and left with a smile in similar scope to when he learned to ride without training wheels.
If I’m ever brave enough to again seek out the two-wheeled freedom of my youth, I know where I’ll be looking for a bike — and helmet.
Contact Abigail Pelzer
at apelzer@newtondailynews.com