Of Bicycles and Carriage Bells

Island Idylls: Stories of growing up in the Virgin Islands.

Tomorrow is my birthday so I thought I'd share a story about a birthday present I got when I was about 9 years old.

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My sister, Erva, had gotten a brand new Reighley bicycle for her birthday or Christmas so of course I wanted one. On the morning of my birthday my father presented me with a bike he proudly declared he had built from the wrecks of three other bikes. It was clean and painted and looked like new. It even had a basket, which Erva's didn't, and handlebar breaks. But I was terribly disappointed, it wasn't NEW, as in bought at a store. Of course now I realize that bike was very special, my father had taken a great deal of time to MAKE it for me. How precious is that?

Anyway... at that time on St. John, 1959, bicycles had to be inspected and licensed at the police station. Once inspection was passed and a small fee paid, you got a real metal license plate (small) that hung off the back of the seat or was attached to a bracket on the rear fender.

source:
http://www.mtfca.com/discus/messages/118802/128544.html

Dad decided I needed to be responsible for getting it licensed, even though I have a vague recollection of Mom thinking I might not be old enough to handle this important task. He won, and off I went, riding my bike to the police station, which was just a few blocks away from our Mobil gas station/garage in Cruz Bay.

One of requirements - besides good breaks - for passing inspection was that there had to be a bell to warn people to get out of the way or to let vehicles know you were in their near proximity. Dad, being Dad, decided to attach a model T-Ford carriage bell in my basket. I could easily reach over the handlebars press down the plunger and a loud BING-BONG could clearly be heard, even above the noise of a Jeep!

When I got to the police station and proudly presented my bike for inspection, Captain Jergens, a tall slender black man with class and dignity, said, "Dis bell ain't de right kind. It mus' be a bell on the handlebar, one you push wid your tumb."

My bike had failed inspection. I was devastated and rode back to garage in tears. When I explained what had happen Dad became indignant. We loaded me and my bike in the jeep and drove to the police station where Dad explained to Captain Jergens that he wanted his daughter's bell to be heard. A weak bbrring-bbrring was not not his idea of a bell, "But this," he said, pressing down the plunger, BING-BONG, "will be let people know she's there."

Inspection was approved, I got my license, and me and my bike rode happily around Cruz Bay.

BING-BONG

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Being Thankful
Today I'm thankful that I've had another year on this wonderful planet. 
Here's to being hopeful that I'll have another one!
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What are you thankful for? Did you ever have a parent make you a present for Christmas or your birthday? How old were you when you learned to ride a bike? Have you ever heard of licensing bicycles?

My First Bicycle - Part Two

Like I said last Monday, I was an immediate expert bicyclist. 
In this picture you can see the Beehive up the hill behind our jeep, The Yellow Dragon. Left to right, Erva, Me, Dad, Nana (Dad's Mom) and Mom. 

From where we parked the jeep, the driveway was pretty steep and rutted as you can sort of see in this picture. The building to the right was a workshop. (It would be to the left in the above picture.) Dad had his ham radio station there and his tools and it's where we kept our bikes. It's also where I "went to school" because Mom was home schooling me at the time.














About a week or so after I learned to ride I coasted down off that gravelly driveway, and merged onto a flat stretch of dirt road that merged onto a paved road.

I was going too fast. There was a lip where the pavement met the dirt road. I was afraid if I hit that lip too fast I'd loose control of the bike. I slammed on the handle-bar brakes, not realizing what would happen.

Bike came to a sudden stop, Bish went flying. I hit the ground so hard the wind got knocked out of me. When I could finally breathe I started screaming...and Mom didn't call me "one of God's screechers" for nothing. Somehow, from all the way up at the house, she heard me and came running.

I'd landed on my hands and knees. My palms were scraped and my right knee was a mess. It was gouged and full of dirt and tiny bits of rock. Mom took one look at it and realized her ministrations might not be enough.  She loaded me in the jeep and we went to tell Dad we were going to the clinic in Cruz Bay and have Dr. Peterson take a looked at it. It might need stitches at the worst. But it definitely needed a professional cleaning.

I, of course was sobbing from pain, from fear, from surprise at how easily I could be thrown from the bike. Plus I was upset that I was going to have a scar on my knee.

And Dad says, "Don't worry, you can wear stockings when you grow up and it won't show."

Already a tomboy, the idea of wearing stockings meant that I couldn't run around barefooted. Wearing stockings was, to me, a kind of punishment for being a girl. I wailed even louder, "But I don't want to wear stockings!"

Oh...I laugh now, but it wasn't funny then! As it turned out, I didn't need stitches, just some good irrigating, stinging Mercurochrome and a bandage.  However, it did leave a scar I still have, though it's faded. And as for stockings, I never have worn them except for very special occasions.


How about you, any bicycle scars? Are you a stockings or barefoot kind of person person?

My First Bicycle - Part One

Between about 1955 and 1959 my father was the head of maintenance at Caneel Bay, which was at that time Laurence Rockefeller's private resort hotel.  For about two of those years we lived at Caneel as housing was provided for many of the employees.

Somehow we got the best house on the place. It was the farthest away from everything and perched on the side of a hill, thus giving us the grandest view of the resort and the ocean. But it was small, with three closet bedrooms, a microscopic bath, a tiny kitchen, and a living room about 12 by 15 feet. We called it the Beehive.

On my eighth birthday Dad presented me with a bicycle, a real one with handle-bar brakes and everything. He proudly explained that he had built it from the salvaged parts of three wrecks. It looked perfect, all shiny and freshly painted blue. I should have been thrilled because a bike was what I wanted. But inside (I kept my disappointment to myself) I was not happy. I wanted a "new" bike, like the Raleigh my sister had been given. Of course the memory of that bike now has a great deal more meaning for me. My dad made it. Nothing could be more precious than that. But at the time, well, I was eight, I couldn't appreciate the significance of the gift.

My disappointment was momentary. Below is a picture of a kapok tree that I took with my red brownie camera. Behind the tree you can see a road going right to left (it disappears to the left of the tree) with another one joining it coming down from the right. It was on the long lower road that Erva taught me how to to ride.






















You can see in the picture, the slight rise and fall of the road. I remember the dips and rises as being huge. Of course I fell the first time I got on the bike, but the second time... I coasted down the first little hill, down into the dip. It was a terrifying thrill. Oh the speed! The wind in my face! And then Erva was yelling at me to peddle as I went up the rise. So I peddled furiously, up and up until I came to the crest then, down the second dip, flying, flying.

I was hooked. And I was an immediate expert bicyclist.

Come back next Monday to learn the truth.

Do you remember your first bike and learning how to ride it?