This post is part of the on-going blog hop hosted at The Waiting and Are You Finished Yet. Writers follow the prompt “Remember the time… (new topic each week)”, and share stories from way back when. You can find other stories on either of the host’s pages. Here’s mine:
Long ago, and far far away, I was a child. I know, hard to believe, what with my recent rants about wrinkles, and aging, but I was… once a kid. As I age, that time in my life moves further and further back in my gray matter, yet takes on an increasingly powerful, almost mythical, place in my memories. Out of nowhere fragmented memories come to me at any time, and I find myself recalling: a day spent swimming in the marshes with my good friend Julia; riding horses with my friend Kim, downtown and along the old railroad tracks; throwing firecrackers at my brother, and seriously burning the end of a finger, when I foolishly lit one and chased him with it. Brief images of my old bedroom; my dog having puppies; dinner at my grandmother’s house; the sweet moments that seemed ordinary them, come to me… and I am transported.
(If you can imagine these two with red hair and freckles, this is pretty much what we looked like in 1975 –>)
Then there are the biggies, the events that transformed and changed my life, even for alittle while. And for a short, sparkling blip of time, I was the only girl member of the Screamin’ Demons Bike Club. I was about eleven years old, maybe twelve, and I rode a bright lime green Schwinn Stingray bike, with a banana seat and classic wide handlebars. I’m not so old that I don’t know that some of my memories are sugar coated. Knowing how things went down in my family, the bike was probably my brothers, or maybe his friend David’s or Chris’, because there’s no way my mom would have bought my sister or I anything other than a very girlish bike. Think pink, or the Raleigh I inherited from my sister. We were expected to act like girls, and riding Stingrays and racing down dirt tracks was not girlish. The fact that my brother and his buddies let me into their group was a serious feather in my cap, for many years to come.
When I think back, I’m honestly not sure why my younger brother and his friends let me join their merry band in the first place. At best, my brother considered me a nagging older sister, who bossed him around. After my father’s death, when we were ten and eight, my mother took the lead role as dad, and I played the supporting role of Mom. Needless to say, my siblings didn’t always appreciate the position that left them in. Frankly, neither did I; it’s lonely at the top. All this to say, I have long lost the details that led up to my inclusion in their super “private,” boys only club, but I was. I was the only girl in the Screamin’ Demon’s Bike Club, and that bears repeating.
We were Mountain Bikers and BMX and thrill seekers, before we knew those things existed. We didn’t wear helmets; they didn’t exist. We didn’t have shin pads. Our mothers didn’t ask us what we were doing, they were just happy we were outside. Ultimately, we were Even Knievel wannabes, because Evel kicked big time ass; he rocked our world, and we worshipped him. In many ways, I was a Tom Boy, though I always looked the girl I was. I was a die hard fan of Formula 1 racing (knew the cars and their drivers); Muhammad Ali was my King; OJ Simpson hadn’t killed anyone (yet)– we called him The Juice and watched everything he did; and I was thrilled to get to ride with my brother and his friends. I was smug about it; I felt too kool for school.
We were serious about our adventures and stared death in the eye on the daily. And laughed. There were wipe outs: stone walls were crashed into, jumps were missed, blood was spilled. I got hurt, but I never let the guys see me cry, lest they kick me out. For that little slice of time, I wanted to be a boy, but was even more excited to be a girl who kept up with the boys. That was then; now that I live in a serious mountain biking part of the country, it’s strange to think that what I was doing then, was exactly what I’m terrified to do now. My husband comes home bloody and bruised routinely, after a day on Galbraith Mountain, and I cringe and tell him I’d never do that… but I did, all those years ago.
We cleared a path down a steep hill in a deeply wooded lot, across the street from my house, and adjacent to David’s house. Our trail made hairpin turns around trees, went over stumps and dips, and ended near a very old stone wall– if you didn’t crash into it. We cleared every inch by hand, and took turns racing down, over and over. Admittedly, the boys did more of that work. It was their idea, not mine. I just got to join along. I was grateful, and relished my role in their club.
When we weren’t on the dirt trail, we built ramps to jump over, in the middle of a quiet street near my house. I thought I was one hot shit for jumping just as high as the boys, and they were duly impressed as well. I still remember their faces when I did the highest jump, which they’d cleared as well. They taunted me, and dared me to try it. No doubt they all were waiting to see me fall flat on my face. I didn’t. I cleared the jump and air pumped my victory. In my mind, that jump was twenty feet high, but I know it was about two feet off the ground, and propelled us two and half feet into the air.
When I think back on those times, spent racing our bikes and risking life and limb, what I remember most dearly now, is that my brother and I loved each other then… we were team. He let me be his pal for a while and we shared those adventures together. Our lives hadn’t gone in the horribly different directions they’ve gone in the forty years since. We were still connected on the deep levels that siblings share. We cared how the other was doing, and we rooted for one another. We had each other’s backs. That was then, now we rarely speak and we barely know each other. He lives there; I live here. Our lives are as different as two lives can be. Then, we were on the same team, The Screamin’ Demons… and I was the only girl member.
Did you have adventures back in the day? Share them in the comments section. Tell me what you think. Check out Tales From the Motherland, on Facebook and hit the Like, then we can like, be friends.