A Cyclist's Christmas Story

Bikesoiler passed this gem on, and it was linked off Drunkcyclist last
year.

So we proudly present to you.....


A Cyclist's Christmas Story
http://www.mile43.com/peterson/Cycli...tmasStory.html

Copyright © 1999 by Kent Peterson

-Dedicated to the memory of Jean Parker Shepherd 1921-1999-

***

It's been years now, but I'll never forget that Christmas...

The days had grown short, the snow had begun to fall and my friends and
I were all gathered around old man Petersen's bike shop in the center of
town. Flick had his eyes on a Raleigh Pro with a full Campy gruppo and
my kid brother's heart was set on Redline BMX bike but I knew there was
only one bike for me.

It hung from a pair of hooks above the window, gleaming with elegance
and old world sophistication. Hand built by a man who was already an
old legend when Coppi first won the Giro, the simple frame would not be
cluttered with deraillers or an excessive amount of cable. No, this was
a pure bicycle, the holy grail of human powered vehicles -- a fixed
gear road bike.

Not a track bike, we didn't have a track in my town, but a champion's
road training bike. One tiny front brake that gleamed like a jewel. A
single chain ring and a single cog joined by the absolute minimum
amount of chain into a mechanism as precise as a Swiss watch. The bike
was the very embodiment of craftsmanship put into the service of speed
and athletic excellence. It was a bicycle that had no business being in
my small town, but there it was, calling to me.

Each day on the way home from school I stop by that window, longing to
see the object of my mania, fearing that someday it would be gone, sold
to someone less than worthy to appreciate it for what it was -- the
perfect bicycle.

But each day I'd hold my breath as I'd round the corner by Petersen's
shop and each day I'd see the bike and let my breath out slowly in
something that was half a whistle and half a prayer. I'd carefully
calculated the rate of my accumulation of allowance and the cost of the
bike and determined that the odds were I would die of old age before I'd
ever be riding that bike down the streets of my town.

But Christmas was coming and I'd been good so maybe there was a chance.
I'd have to approach it just right, however.

My mother, knowing nothing of the subtlety and timing involved, caught
me off guard.

"So Ralphie, what do you want for Christmas?"

I was young, I was impetuous, I was certain. Before I could stop myself
I blurted out, "I want an Italian-built, Columbus-tubed fixed gear
bike!"

A look of horror crossed my mother's face, "You'll blow your knees
out!" She said this with a tone of absolute certainty, like she'd just
predicted the sun would rise in the morning.

It was the classic mother fixed gear block. No amount of reasoning
known to kiddom could counter that, so I beat a hasty retreat. "Oh
yeah, heh heh," I said, "I guess a mountain bike would be fine."

A mountain bike? Good grief, what was I saying? She'll never buy it.

But she wasn't listening, "I don't want you riding around a fixed gear.
They're dangerous and you'll blow your knees out."

My old man looked over the edge of the copy of Velo News he was
reading, "Fixed gear, eh?" he grunted, "can't coast, you know."

Oh boy, did I know. No shifting, no coasting, no problem! A fixed gear
would be the bike that would make me a man, a bike where every climb
and descent would be a test of strength and skill. In one instant I
would have to be strong and in the next I would have to spin like a
caffineated phonograph record and always, always, I would have to be
paying attention. It was a bike that would test me and teach me and
make me into a cyclist.

Fortunately the conversation drifted onto my kid brother's desire for
the Redline, so I was free to concentrate on new schemes to obtain my
dream bike.

My next chance came from a most unexpected source, my English teacher
Mrs. Brown. "I want you to write a theme," she proclaimed one day. We
groaned. "The subject of this theme is 'What I want for Christmas'."
Here, I brightened. This was my chance. An eloquently written them on
the virtues of fixed gear riding would surely earn me an A. When I
proudly showed the A plus theme to my mother, she'd be swayed by my
powers of erudite persuasion and have no choice but to buy me the
bicycle. Here was a plan that could not fail.

That night, I wrote fervently, like a man possessed. The first sentence
came easily and the rest of the words tumbled quickly out of me like
blood from a fatal wound. Oh yes, I was constructing a masterpiece!

This is what I wrote:

What I want for Christmas

What I want for Christmas is a fixed gear bicycle with an Italian-built
Columbus tube frame. I think a fixed gear bicycle makes a good Christmas
present. I don't think a derailler bike makes a very good gift.

Perfect. When Mrs. Brown reads this she'll have to give me an A!

It didn't work out quite the way I'd planned. Mrs. Brown hadn't seemed
to realize the importance of my manuscript when I'd handed it to her
and now 24 hours later it was judgement day. The papers were passed
back and I looked at my grade. There must be some mistake! Here where
it should have said A plus, plus, plus there was a big, ugly C. And
what's this? She'd written a comment on the paper.

There in her precise, school teacher printing, were the dreaded words:
"You'll blow your knees out!"

Oh no, this is horrible.

I was running out of time. I needed a new plan and a new ally.

Santa Clause was my last chance. Sure, I was getting a little old to
believe in Santa but when the days dwindle down to a precious few, even
the most agnostic of kids realizes that it costs nothing to believe and
the upside potential is huge. So, like every year, we trundled down to
Lohman's department store and while mom and the old man wandered about
the store, my brother and I waited in line with 400 other bet-hedging
beggars to have a minute of pleading with the old guy in the red suit.

We were in the line for hours. The store was just about to close when
it was my kid brother's turn on Santa's knee. My brother stared at the
big man, opened his mouth and began to wail like a new-born fire
engine. A surly elf scooped him up and sent him careening down Santa's
bobsled run.

Now it was my turn, my chance. "Well, little boy, what should Santa
bring you this year?"

I froze. Here was my chance. I was face to face with the big man and I
couldn't think of a thing. I sat there, dumbstruck. I tried to make my
mouth work, but nothing came out. The surly elf began to drag me away
and Santa said "How about a nice gel saddle?" I nodded dumbly and the
elf tossed me onto the iced slide.

What was I doing? Somehow I regained the use of my muscles and my
voice. I grabbed the edge of the slide, looked up at Santa and
declared, "I want an Italian-built, Columbus-tubed fixed gear bike!"
I'd done it!

Santa looked down at me with a twinkle in his eye and a chuckle in his
throat. As his big, black boot kicked me down the ice slide I heard him
say "A fixed gear? You'll blow your knees out!"

Finally the big day arrived. Like every year my brother and I had
pooled our resources and gotten the old man a big tin of Brooks
Proofide. We got mom got riding gloves which said were just what she
needed. She says that every year. My brother did OK, with his big gift
being the Redline.

I got the usual assortment of chains, water bottles and a particularly
hideous gift from my aunt Cora. Aunt Cora suffers from the belief that
I am permanently four years old and a girl. This year the gift was pink
helmet cover with rabbit ears and a matching pink jersey with a fluffy
cotton tail on the middle pocket. My mom proclaimed it adorable and the
old man said I looked like a deranged Easter Bunny and I wouldn't have
to wear it.

We'd torn through all the packages and I'd lost all hope when the old
man said "Say, what's that behind the desk?"

The box was big and the tag said "To: Ralphie from Santa." As I tore
into the box with wild abandon my parents didn't think I could hear
them whispering. My mom said, "I thought we'd talked about this..." but
the old man waved her concerns aside with a simple "I had one when I was
his age."

Surrounded by the torn wrapping paper it was even more beautiful than
it'd been in the window of Petersen's. I ran my hands lovingly over the
leather saddle and looked at the old man, "Can I...," I began to ask.
"Go on," he replied while my mother looked concerned and said "I still
say those things are dangerous."

I carefully wheeled it out the door and down the driveway. I clipped my
right foot in, started it rolling and hopped on. As I tried to drive my
left foot into the clip, I stupidly tried to coast. The bike would have
none of that, but I didn't fall over. I just rolled down the street,
pedaling one-footed while frantically stabbing at the left pedal with
my left foot. Eventually, I got my foot in the left clip.

I turned the corner onto Mountain Park Boulevard and as I did one of
the Bumpus's hounds came out of nowhere and gave chase. Our neighbor's
the Bumpus's have a hundred and eleventy mean old coon dogs and this
was the biggest, meanest hungriest one. He let out a bark and gave
chase.

I punched the pedals for all I was worth and flew up the hill. The dog
panted, slowed and then gave up. I was doing it, I was winning, I was
invincible!

Mountain Park Boulevard gets really steep just before the crest and
just as I was reaching the summit, I heard a "pop". Not my tire, my
left knee. Oh no, I'd blown my knee out!

With tears in my eyes, I crested the hill. I had no choice but to pedal
for all I was worth, frantically keeping up with the wildly spinning
cranks as I descended. My knee was throbbing as I wound through the
street leading back to home. As I pulled into the driveway, I could see
my knee was swollen noticeably and I began to cry again.

My mom came rushing out, "Ralphie, what's wrong?!"

Oh oh, time to think fast. I couldn't tell her I'd blown my knee out.

"I, I hit a patch of ice and crashed on my knee," I lied. Not bad for
fiction on a deadline, I thought.

"Those ice patches have been know to kill people!" Mom clucked in a
worried tone, "let me take a look at that knee..."

"I'll take care of it, Ralphie," said the old man, stepping in and
taking charge. He gave me a look that let me know that while Mom might
have bought the story, he was having none of it. We walked, slowly up
to the bathroom.

I knew I was in for it now. The old man closed the door and I braced
myself for the yelling.

It never came. He took the liniment from the medicine cabinet and said,
"your Mom's right about the ice Ralph, but you also have to be careful
not to push too hard, too fast. You've got to let the tendons and
ligaments develop along with those muscles. That's the way the pro's do
it."

And that was it. No yelling, no being grounded from riding. He did
mention that since I'd "banged my knee" I should probably take things
easy and stick to smaller hills for a while.

And they let me keep the bike in my room. I went to sleep dreaming of
riding across the Italian countryside or wearing the yellow jersey in
the Tour de France. And when I'd wake, there it was: the greatest
Christmas gift I'd ever received or ever would receive.


--
cfsmtb

On 2005-12-22, cfsmtb (aka Bruce)
was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea:
And they let me keep the bike in my room. I went to sleep dreaming of
riding across the Italian countryside or wearing the yellow jersey in
the Tour de France. And when I'd wake, there it was: the greatest
Christmas gift I'd ever received or ever would receive.

Hurrah!

I'm sitting here in the office grinning my face off. I need a fixie

--
TimC
Modus Ponens in action:
- Nothing is better than world peace.
- A turkey sandwich is better than nothing.
== Ergo, a turkey sandwich is better than world peace. --unknown

TimC wrote:

On 2005-12-22, cfsmtb (aka Bruce)
was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea:
And they let me keep the bike in my room. I went to sleep dreaming of
riding across the Italian countryside or wearing the yellow jersey in
the Tour de France. And when I'd wake, there it was: the greatest
Christmas gift I'd ever received or ever would receive.

Hurrah!

I'm sitting here in the office grinning my face off. I need a fixie

I would like one also... however... a Bianchi L'una will suffice...
Santa? I'm a good girl!

Tam

TimC wrote:

I'm sitting here in the office grinning my face off. I need a fixie


Those bikes are dangerous, doncha know. You'll blow your knees out!

Cheers,

Suzy


--
suzyj

On 2005-12-22, suzyj wrote:

TimC wrote:

I'm sitting here in the office grinning my face off. I need a fixie


Those bikes are dangerous, doncha know. You'll blow your knees out!

Damn ... beaten to the punch.

--
My Usenet From: address now expires after two weeks. If you email me, and
the mail bounces, try changing the bit before the "@" to "usenet".