The balloon tire bicycle was leaning against the aluminum garbage pail in front of my apartment building. It must have been discarded by one of the tenants.
The tires looked flat, but I could easily remedy that. I would pump air into them at the gas station around the corner.
The brakes didn’t work but I knew how to jump off the bike to stop it.
There was a small bell on the handlebar that did work so I would be able to alert people that I was near. The metal was rusty but the paint that remained was pink.
The next day, I practiced riding up and down the sidewalk and with greater confidence, I practiced riding in the gutter. Few cars were parked in that era.
Feeling more daring and bold, and with greater self-assurance, I merged with the commercial traffic on Southern Boulevard.
I was on a high, ignoring the blaring horns directed at me, until the sound of a truck’s screeching brakes and a smell of burning rubber tires forced me to jump off and stop my bike.
The truck driver came toward me, his face red with fury, his loud screaming voice shouting, “You foolish, stupid child!!! I almost killed you!!”
I wheeled the bike to hide it in the backyard, content that I now owned a girl’s balloon tire two-wheeler. I was overjoyed to have retrieved the bicycle from tomorrow’s garbage pickup.
Curse words followed!!
With my head hung down in shame, I dragged my bicycle out of the traffic jam and walked it on the sidewalk back to my apartment building on Simpson Street. Leaning my bike against an aluminum garbage pail, I parked the two-wheeler.
My heart still racing from the truck driver’s furor, I went back into my apartment, took out my Gone With the Wind coloring book and my box of 64 Crayola Crayons hoping to calm down, unwind, relax after my distressing, frightening, near-death trauma.
