Runaway Bicycle

 

As the weather warms up outside, there are many harbingers of spring to announce its imminent arrival. The geese have returned. Some finches have made their appearance at our bird feeders. And the bicycle riders are starting to show their presence in larger numbers than the numbers in winter. I especially noted the small groups of youngsters who were riding along the street with great glee. They were full of energy and trying new moves and stunts and occasionally slamming on their brakes in an area where there was some loose sand. This would cause a spinout and gales of laughter. Oh, how I wish I could join them. But any cycling I can do now is all in my mind. It brings up images of years gone by and my experiences on my bike.

Being a "tweener" is an awkward time for a lot of us.  As a tweener growing up on our farm in Saskatchewan, I especially found it difficult.  I was old enough to work on the fields with heavy machinery.  I was also old enough to drive our half ton truck on the farm property. At harvest time, I was even able to drive the truck to deliver freshly combined grain to the local elevator in Wroxton, providing I used the back roads where the chance of me being stopped by an RCMP patrol car was minimal.

But in order to visit my friends, I had to either walk or use a bicycle in summer, or walk or cadge a ride from my dad in winter.  As walking took a lot of time and even more effort, my main mode of getting around was a single speed bicycle. I was given this bike when I was about 10 years old to provide me with a means of getting to our local one room schoolhouse which was located a mile east of us on highway #10.  My dad ordered it from the Simpson Sears catalog and I think he paid $20 for it, which was a lot of money for our cash starved household.

Having a bike was great.  But there was a dual purpose in the purchase. I could get to school in a shorter time than if I was walking.  This meant I was able to help out with more chores around the farm in the morning.  It also meant that I had no excuse for asking my dad to drive me to my friends' places.

I covered a lot of miles on that bike. I soon learned to take off the mudguards during wet weather as the Saskatchewan side roads were made of dirt with a thin veneer of gravel.  Riding on a muddy road caused mud to accumulate on the tires and then to jam up between the mudguard and the tire.  You then could not pedal anymore until you laboriously removed the mud with a stick that fit between the tire and the guard.  After having to stop and perform this cleansing about 20 times in the space of a mile, the mudguards soon came off and stayed off. I would often get home with my front and backsides tattooed with mud that came off the wheels as they turned.

I must admit that I liked to pedal fast and furiously in order to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible.  One such time I was returning from a visit to my favorite cousins, who lived a half mile north of us. I was pedaling as fast as I could down the gravel road.  Mostly the road was smooth and packed where the gravel had been swept aside by the passage of automotive traffic.  There were places where the road was rutted and as usual, I slowed down somewhat in order not to lose control my bike.

The road from my cousins’ place took a sharp turn and dropped about 15 feet over a space of about 50 metres as it passed over the narrowest part of a large slough that adjoined our property.  As I made the turn at still quite a fast speed, I stopped pedaling and pumped back on my coaster brake to slow my descent.  Instead of feeling the reassuring drag of the coaster brake, my pedals free-wheeled in reverse.  To my chagrin, my chain had slipped off the sprocket, and I was without brakes.  Naturally because I was heading down a steep incline, I started to go even faster.

Bailing off would have meant a possible faceplant into a hard gravelled surface, torn clothes and lacerated knees and hands.  Or I could try to partially dismount and use my feet as drags to slow my speed.  But this meant a very good chance of losing even more control of my bike and the same wipeout on the gravel surface.  No, I would hang on and hope to steer my way through the ruts at the bottom of the incline between the two sloughs.

Suddenly I caught a ridge in the road and my bike mounted a rut and the sheer speed propelled me into the air and in the direction of the slough.  As I headed towards the water in what now seemed like slow motion, many thoughts occurred to me.  I would land on the barbed wire fence that crossed the slough there.  Only the tops were sticking out, so the water had to be at least four feet deep.  Or I would miss the fence and land upside down in the water with the bike landing on top of me and knocking me out causing me to drown.  Or I would hit the water, miss the fence, and still be mounted on my bike. I prayed for the latter.

As I flew towards the water, my bike and I tilted sideways, and we both hit the water just before the fence with a loud splash.  The bike and I went under but I soon found my footing on the bottom with one handlebar still gripped firmly in my hand.  As my head broke the surface, I begin to sink in the mud at the bottom of the slough.

Slough water in the dead of summer has a very pungent stagnant smell.  As well, the water is thick with weeds that grasp at your body.  The bottom is a layer of soft mud into which I was rapidly sinking, threatening to put my 5'2" height under the surface. I quickly lurched and sloshed my way to firmer footing beside the road, still hanging on to my precious bike. As I pulled myself onto the road, I was a mess.  I was soaked, I was covered with weeds and the odd snail, and as well, there were several leeches trying to take advantage of the "free lunch" that had dropped into their domain. 

Fortunately for me I was spared the embarrassment of having a car drive by and stop to offer me assistance.  I quickly got my chain back on the sprocket and I continued on my way home, spraying water and weeds as I hurried to get away from the possibility of having someone see me in this most bedraggled condition. At home, I stripped off my clothes, rinsed with fresh rainwater, and removed the few leeches still attached to me.  As I put on fresh clean clothes, I stopped to thank God that the runaway had not ended in disaster but rather in a way that would make for good future entertainment at my expense.