The Destruction of All Bicycles

I’m on a mission to eliminate all bicycles. Destroy them. Pound them. Jump on them. Whatever it takes.

Destruction number one. I purchased a blue, 20 inch BMX from my friend Rory, in the sixth grade. Twenty payments at $1 per week. A grand total of $20. The bike had a smooth ride. Really smooth. Slick bearings I presumed. The black handle bars had a V-shaped crossbar. I leaned them forward slightly, per the style in 1987. Totally rad.

I rode down to Whittier Elementary School, cruising my little blue machine on the sidewalks, jumping off the high, two-foot curbs. This thing was fast. Really fast. I revved up for a solo drag race down a corridor. I’d take the 90 degree turn, darting to the right in the last moment.

The sidewalk was slick. Really slick. When the turn came, I turned the handle bars, but the bicycle kept going straight. I straightened them back out. Oh no. I thought. The tire took the hit first. Then my head plowed into the old, red brick wall. It took a moment to regain my composure. I’m okay. I’m okay. I thought. I started turning around to ride off, but the bike was stubborn. It wouldn’t move. I looked down and saw the bicycle frame split in two places. The front wheel was unable to turn. So much for my $20. So much for this rad, blue machine. It’s cruising days were over.

Destruction number two. My friend’s younger brother, Justin, let me borrow his 16” BMX bike on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The bike was too small. I had to raise the seat stem approximately 12” higher than the handle bars. We were at Whittier Elementary School, and once again those two foot curbs were calling me to jump off them with Justin’s little bike.

This thing had hops. It felt like a feather. I was energized. I took that first jump and slammed it right onto the blacktop with some serious confidence. Slam. I heard a small squeaking sound. I had split the frame. Again. Poor Justin.

Destruction number three. In my senior year of high school, I was riding a red and white, Spalding brand 18-speed that was a little too tall for me. Approaching stops was tricky because the cross-bar didn’t give me any mercy.

One afternoon, I was riding home through the neighborhoods by North High School, my secondary alma mater. Three factors led to the destruction of this final victim. First, it didn’t have coaster breaks. Second, I was riding with no hands. Third, I had my head down, and had just opened a 16 oz, glass bottle of Gatorade.

I looked up just in time to see the collision coming. Oh no. I thought. My tire, then my head, plowed yet again into another non-moving object. This time it was the rear end of a parked, 1990 Chevy Blazer. I fell to the ground. The bike sat halfway on top of my legs. I had split yet another bicycle frame. I looked up at the Blazer and noticed that the mouth of the 16oz, glass Gatorade bottle, somehow suction-cupped itself onto the rear window of the Blazer, at a 90 degree angle, without breaking any glass. Hurricanes do weird stuff like this. I stood up, threw the bicycle to the ground, uttered a few profanities, pulled the Gatorade bottle off the Blazer, and wheeled my bike home on its back wheel.

It’s 15 years since my last victim, but I’m still on a mission. The destruction of all bicycles.