My Bicycle Hell – Part 1 – The Banana Turd
In the early 80s, in Elementary school, a guy was only as good as the bike he rode. Like cars later would in high school, bikes defined who a person was to the rest of his peers. Those who owned a BMX Mongoose pretty much owned the school. They could pick on other guys, steal lunch money, and ass-rape teachers with impunity. Others had fancy, shiny ten-speeds or early versions of today’s mountain bikes, either of which bought them a certain level of respect. Below these on the pyramid were countless other styles and shapes of bikes, each one less respected than the next.
The Donk owned this one:
Except it was shit-brown. My banana-seated nightmare was so low on the bike- ranking pyramid that it almost, ALMOST was cool. When I rode that bad boy around I just looked down, hoping that either A) I would somehow be able to will myself into turning invisible, or B) I would suddenly be able to fly away on it like that kid in ET (OK, so I was mildly retarded. Like you weren’t?). Instead, my bike held strange magnetic, hypnotic powers that seemed only to work on whichever girl I had a crush on that week and bullies bent on my utter mental ruin via their torturous verbal barbs.
I would never lock my bike up at school, in the park, or anywhere else I rode it in a not-so-subconscious attempt to get it stolen. Not surprisingly, no one ever took the bait (although I did see a toothless whino eyeballing it once, but he ended up asking it for spare change, so I don’t think that counts).
As is well-documented by now, my family was, to put it in academic terms, “fucking poor.” Nonetheless, for years I begged my parents for a new bike. But for reasons beyond me even to this day they thought things like “food,” clothes” and “running water” were more important than exorcising me of my dung-colored banana-demon . I had finally resigned myself to daily verbal abuse and emasculation when beyond all possible hope, my parents bought me a new bike one Christmas. I was stunned. True, it was no Mongoose, was in fact a rather low-end rip-off called The Excalibur that they more than likely got at K-Mart, but to me it was maybe the best Christmas gift I ever got.
Overnight I became one of the faceless masses that owned middle-of-the-road bikes, and that was just fine by me. I road that sucker proudly all over the place, my head finally held high, my mulleted hair flowing gently in the soft breeze.
My joy lasted for three months.
One day in March after baseball practice, I walked across the street from the park to a friend’s house. A bit later on, my dad picked me up and drove me home. The next morning I walked outside, prepared to mount my sweet Excaliber and start the 40 mile trek to school. Except the bike wasn’t there. My mind reeled as I realized I had left it at the park the night before! And worse still, I was so used to my five years with ol bannaners that I still hadn’t got in the habit of locking the new one up!
I tried to remain upbeat as I ran all the way to the park, breaking all land-speed records. But predictably, my K-Mart beauty was nowhere to be found. It was a heartbreaking lesson in responsibility, particularly when I saw my parents’ disappointed reaction. They had probably saved for months to get me that bike, and now it was gone thanks to my dumb ass.
But they had their revenge. Because after all I still needed a bike, and the behemoth they dug up for me next made banana turd seem like it was made of gold bars. Not only would this new piece of garbage become a neighborhood legend, but it would almost make me a Eunuch in the process.
Stay tuned for Part 2
