A Vision of Loveliness, and Fond Memories

I was in Los Angeles for a conference. Walking down Hollywood Boulevard. Ray Davies's brilliance echoed in my head.

I stepped over Lou Costello. I tripped on Mel Tormé. I slipped on Ingrid Bergman.

I watched tourists take photos (of what, I have no idea). I listened to shills hustle. I dodged meth-hazed, vacant-eyed locals. I witnessed arrests and pat-downs.

I spotted her.

I stopped breathing.

I stopped moving.

Waves of joy crashed over me!

I blinked.

When my eyes opened, she was still there.

Wow.

I smiled a smile of pure delight!

There she was! Right in front of me! A vision from my childhood. A memory as fond as any I'll ever have. Here! In LA!

But...

She's wasn't pretty.

Let me re-phrase that: she was pretty battered.

The years had not been kind to her.

But she endured.

She's tough, that way.

She's no longer bright, shiny, or new.

But she's beautiful to me.

Here she is:

Curvacious AND bombproof!

She's a Ross Compact. She's a sister of my first multi-gear bike.

Mine was yellow.

I rode her...everywhere.

Bounding. Exploring. Romping. On road. Off road. BMX tracks. Woods. Trails. Over jumps. Through creeks. Rain. Snow. Who cared?

I remembered racing her. I pedaled furiously through my neighborhood, winning! The competition? Whomever I imagined!

Somehow, the lack of bar tape suits her.
I love those crazy brake extenders on the top bar!

She was my companion on wild adventures. My wanderlust and imagination took us far beyond suburbia. Her rat-trap and my backpack carried the necessities: lunches, soccer ball, baseball mitt (and bat!), basketball, tennis racket, towel, sleeping bag, books, water...everything.

She was bombproof. The wheels may have wobbled some (riding down stairs will do that), but she had friction shifters and heavy-duty brakes. In all the years I had her, I don't think I ever chaged her brake pads. And a cable adjustment? I never heard of such a thing! I don't know that I ever had more than one or two flats. Bombproof. She was bombproof.

We'd crashed—spectacularly. A lot. I skinned my knees and chin and whacked my shins with the spiky pedals. Games and races with neighborhood kids would regularly see me dismounting at speed and thrusting her aside as I ran...somewhere.

Underneath that pedal is where I wore through
the chainstay on my yellow bomber!
What memories!

With all the battering, I don't think anything remained in-line. I know the handlebars were bent and permanently off-center. The seat was tattered. The shifters were constantly out of position. One crank was bent so badly that it clicked against the chainstay until it had worn a deep cut into the metal.

But she rode. She was mine.

She was special.

And here was her sister, in LA, chained to a stand with a flat rear tire. No bar tape, but with end plugs inserted.

She's someone's baby.

I hope her owner knows what a treasure she is.