Look Who’s Loving the Bike: July

At the top of each month we like to feature the amazing stories and memories of people who are loving the bike.  Please take a look at what our July 2011 lovers have to say. Hey…..and we’d love to hear from you as well….feel free to submit your “Look Who’s Loving the Bike” story to us at any time.

Andrew Widgery - Guildford, UK

“Bikes clearly to many of us present our earliest memories of real independence away from parental control – our first significant feeling of freedom and a sense of speed .

My early memories was in borrowing a very beaten up tricycle owned by a cousin of mine when I was around 5 or 6 and who lived on a steep hill. It was red with a lot of the paintwork missing or somewhat tired and rusty in several places with slightly buckled wheels which rotated unencumbered as there were no brake blocks on the front wheel only and consequently no brakes of any description to slow the tricycle.

That particular failing clearly didn’t deter a young boy with a sense of adventure towards anything with wheels.

As a consequence slowing down was done by transferring ones bottom off the saddle and on to the mudguard that flexed sufficiently so it came into contact with the tyre and slowed the tricycle as I raced downhill on the pavement and taking a sharp left turn into their driveway that led to the garage lifting the nearside rear wheel off the ground in the process.

I recall It thrilled me so much I repeated the dare devil action for a good portion of the afternoon until it was tea time and the art of tipping onto two wheels was truly mastered.

Simple pleasures enthralling a small young boy with a sense of adventure – what special memories for me.”

Joel Phillips – Lakewood, CO

“I’ll never forget that Saturday morning in April of 1972, the day I was given my first NEW bicycle. My dad woke me earlier than normal, which was a-ok with me because that usually meant I was in for some kind of adventure.  What would it be today?  A day spent fishing the beaver dams and streams west of town, or prospecting around abandoned mine sites in the Snowy Range Mountains? Whatever it may be, I was quick to get ready.  I stood and watched my dad as he lumbered to raise the heavy wooden garage door.  The high pitched squeak of metal on metal gave way to the resonating twang of a giant spring being sprung as the door disappeared into the darkness of rafters filling the space with sunlight.  Then I saw it, leaning against the workbench. A large brown cardboard box with the bold letters “ANOTHER BRAND NEW BICYCLE” blazoned across its width.

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