and Words
Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride my bike
I want to ride my bicycle
I want to ride it where I like
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
In my early days on the sunny isle of Puerto Rico, I really wanted a bicycle. My parents ran a restaurant which doubled as our home. We resided on the dividing line between San Juan and Rio Piedras, a busy street as far as Puerto Rican roads go. Running the business also kept them occupied. They could easily keep an eye on me if I were sitting around doing my homework or watching television, but once I wandered out onto the streets, all bets were off. They vetoed the idea of a bicycle based on these two factors.
Once we moved to Fort Lauderdale, I got my first bike. My mom found a Kent BMX bike that she could afford in one of the local department stores, like Jefferson’s. I tolerated that bicycle for the first year or two; it would be that or nothing at all. We were poor, and while my mom provided us with whatever we needed, what we wanted was entirely another discussion.
I rode that crappy bicycle to school and back, and it granted me a sense of freedom. I could at least ride to the local ice cream shop, though I couldn’t personally afford to buy ice cream. My dreams of a nice bike would need to wait.
I got a job washing dishes about a year later at a Chinese restaurant in Pembroke Pines. I imagine that it was a child labor law violation since I was maybe twelve years old, but they were friends of the family and treated me as such. Twice a week I’d spend an evening washing dishes and pocket $15 for the five hours of work. I put those dollars away carefully, and slowly allowed it to accumulate. While the math works out to about a month’s pay, it felt like an eternity.
Finally, on that special day, I walked through the doors of the local bike shop, Wheeler Dealer on Peter’s Road. The shop was lined with racks of bicycles, some lined the floors, others hung from the ceiling. There was one frame off at the corner, a PK Ripper, which sat prominently. It was built with a special alloy and was allegedly light enough to lift with your pinky.
Ernie, who I assumed to be the proprietor, asks my name and knew me only as ‘Wong’. I pick out a Stormer, a beautiful chrome bike with blue and yellow lettering, much like the colors of the Ukranian flag. He takes my pocketful of small bills, and hand writes the transaction onto a pad. He separates the carbon copy and hands it to me. Slowly, he removes the bike from the rack. However, he quizzically takes the bike into the back room and mounts it upside down. Next, he places metal letters and wielded a hammer to stamp my name ‘WONG’ onto the bike. Once it’s down from the mount, it is inextricably mine.
Those two 20″ wheels allowed me to explore my small world of Broadview Park in appropriate style. It was mine more so that other kids’ bikes were theirs; I worked for every penny of that bike. While I rode it year around, the weather in Fort Lauderdale resembled perpetual summer. Consequently, it was easily my most treasured possession. I endured the 90-degree heat and 90 percent humidity, and to me, it seemed normal. Astonishingly, I never wore sunscreen, yet I can’t remember ever getting sunburned.
As I pocketed more money, I upgraded parts. I scanned the pages of BMX Action magazine for new interesting part, and I’d ride back to Wheeler Dealer and gave Ernie my money. He smiled and indulged me. Over the years, I swapped out the grips, handlebars, stem, headset, seat, seat post, seat post clamp, crank, hand brakes, tires, and fork.
The searing South Florida heat slightly cooled as I sped up on my bicycle. I rode that bike to visit friends and explore the neighborhood. There were few corners of those streets that I didn’t know. They were mostly row after row of single-story homes, but I navigated mostly by remembering the other kids who lived in particular houses.
On most days, I simply rode from street to street with no particular destination. The rubber of the tires buzzed in a low tone as they rolled over the hot asphalt. The sound of the winding chain urged me to pedal, mile after mile, and hour after hour. This bicycle became an extension of my body; I willed it to move without really thinking about it, much like we don’t ponder about which muscles to move when picking up a pen.
Though it was a BMX bike, I rarely rode it off the street, save for the few dirt roads in Sunview Park which was a block from my house. I rode over glass too, but I didn’t enjoy the way it slowed down the ride. That said, I spent way too much time learning how to do stunts. Though I could never quite maintain the balance to maintain a wheelie indefinitely.
We had a long piece of plywood that I kept near the front yard, that along with a collection of bricks. On particularly adventurous days, I stack the bricks and set up a makeshift ramp. I speed onto that ramp, strike it with a loud thud, and launch myself onto the air like Icarus seeking flight. Time after time, I catapulted myself onto the air, that moment filled with exhilaration from the weightlessness and the anticipation of striking the ground.
On one day, I stacked those bricks a little too tall and set up the ramp a little too steeply. I raced, as I did so many times before, onto that ramp only to have it collapse like bowling pins. I toppled over what was now simply debris. Much like Icarus, I dared to fly too high, and my figurative wings melted as I flew too close to the sun.
I have a confession to make; I don’t particularly like this song by Queen. I have a deep respect for the group and for Freddie Mercury in particular, but I only tolerate this song. It’s a bit too simple and dayglow happy. Music should express meaning and significance. Is this not the musical equivalent of a crayon drawing of a stick figure?
However, I can’t deny that it mirrors my childhood fondness (or obsession) with my bike. It is with that compulsive honesty where this song shines. Buzzing around on those two wheels similarly felt simple and dayglow happy. The song brings me back to those days, and strangely it fits.