My first bicycle was a Christmas present when I was seven years old. That was in 1943, right in the middle of the War years (WW II), and there wasn't a new bicycle to be found anywhere due to the shortage of metal. All available metal, including scrap iron, was being used to support the war effort.
At that time, I had progressed from a small tricycle that was powered by the pedals on the large front wheel, to a chain driven model that was, even though it was considerably larger, still a three-wheeler. I just had to have a bike. I can remember pleading with my Dad (Santa having been exposed as a fraud the previous year) for a bike - any kind, as long as it had two wheels. He was very patient with me, and explained that it just wouldn't be possible that year, and, deep down inside me, I understood - but a little begging never hurt, so I persisted.
Christmas Eve finally arrived and, after looking everywhere, there wasn't a bike to be seen in the house, the basement or the garage; I had given the place a thorough searching. Needless to say I went to bed resigned to the fact that there would be no bike under the tree in the morning. Little did I know....
I remember that the stairwell in our house was enclosed, and ended on a small landing, from which you had to make a left turn to descend three more steps in order to enter the living room. As I approached the landing and got my first glimpse of the Christmas tree, my eyes almost popped out of my head. There, parked right next to the tree stood the biggest, most beautiful red and silver bicycle that I had ever seen - it was absolutely huge. I don't think that my feet even touched the last three stairs as I dashed to inspect that miraculous sight, hoping that it wasn't a figment of my imagination. It most definitely was not.
The bicycle had big, widespread handlebars; a bright red frame; silver fenders; and a large leather saddle that was supported by two coiled springs. I don't remember it having a chain guard, but it did have a standard that was held in the upright position by a clip on the rear fender. There was a large, round, red reflector just above the standard clip. The most impressive feature was that it had only two wheels; what a wonderful sight to behold.
As I look back over these many years, I recall that there was a light dusting of snow on the roads and sidewalks that Christmas morning, and I had to wait another whole day before I could take that bike for a spin. When I was finally able to go for a ride, the first thing I noticed was how heavy the bike was; even so, with Dad’s help, it didn't take me long to master it. Soon, I was happily riding all around the neighborhood, oblivious to everything but the wind in my face.
Several days later, I began to notice a couple of imperfections on my marvelous machine - an almost invisible dent on a fender, a little smudge in the paint - just enough to make me realize that the bike wasn’t new. I waited several days trying to get the courage to ask my dad where and how he got the bike. Finally, after I asked, he told me how he and a friend had scoured swap shops, junk yards and other friend’s basements looking for bicycle parts. After a month of searching, they had obtained three unworkable bikes from which they assembled my red and silver beauty. He sounded somewhat apologetic as he related the story, but there was no need to apologize for giving me the best Christmas present that I ever had.
Each time I look back to that long ago Christmas, I realize that the bike becomes more beautiful and my Dad grows in stature with each remembrance.
Thanks for the bike, Dad, and Merry Christmas.
F. A. Zedik October 14, 1996
[published, nationally, on May 23, 2006 in “Wisdom of Our Fathers” by Tim Russert]