The Speedometer

I suppose we were about 11 years old when we first started riding our bikes down the steep streets on Brand Mountain in the North of Glendale, California. A long time ago now and so much has changed that it would no longer be possible.

These were the old Sears and Roebuck bicycles of the 1940’s. Heavy frames, fat tyres and rear brakes operated by pressing backwards on the foot pedals. They were more suited to the delivery of newspapers or carrying books to school in the wire baskets attached to the handlebars. They certainly were not made for the purpose we put them to.

There was always conjecture and debate about just how fast we had been going. Then Bill Higley announced that what we needed was a speedometer.

“Oh sure, and who makes one of those for a bicycle?”

“Someone must! I’m going to find out.”

To our collective amazement, he not only found out, he talked his father into parting with the money to have one fitted to his bike.

Four of us assembled on the appointed day at the foot of the mountain road and started the long push uphill. It was far too steep to peddle up, no luxury of gears in those days. We went further up the sparsely populated hillside road than ever before. This was an important occasion and it needed to be done in the best possible manner.

Now consider the safety equipment we carried. On this day we wore shoes. Unusual but it was coming into winter and they were for warmth rather than protection. A light jacket, again for warmth and one of the boys had gloves on. I suppose that was his mother’s idea.

Helmets? Don’t be silly, there were no such things. Only football players wore helmets.

Now we reached the take off point there had to be some planning. This was a group effort and the speedometer was the focal point of the pending historic event.

Bill announced, “I’ll lead and yell back what speed we are at as we go.”

As his bike was acknowledged as the swiftest, we agreed and he took off.

“Ten miles an hour”, he yelled. “Fifteen” as we swept around a wide curve. We struggled to keep up. The ones at the rear kept yelling,

” What did he say? How fast?”

Bill’s eyes became glued to the speedometer as we tore over the slightly bumpy hard paved surface. We had never gone this fast before and the curves were becoming a scary challenge.

Bills last report was an excited “Thirty two”, then he hit the curb.

Fortunately the steep slope was heavily overgrown with thick shrubbery. He dove into a relatively soft landing; a lot of scratches and bruising, but nothing broken – unless you consider the sad state of the bike.

He left the bike hidden in the bushes. It would be picked up later when he could get this dad to drive him back up. What tale could he spin to his father?

Bill was not the least bit concerned as he rode home in triumph astride my handlebars. We had achieved that rocketing speed of thirty two miles per hour. Well, he had. The rest of us were probably a bit slower. After all, we missed out on the glory of crashing!

NOTE: – The story is TRUE!