The Bicycle Chronicles James L. Cowles (c) Copyright 2025 by James L. Cowles

Photo courtesy of Laurenkategriffiths at Facebook.

Back in the 50s, almost every kid owned a bicycle. As I remember, it was almost a necessity for me to have one. It wasn't so much because I needed to get from one place to another with it, but rather, it was just to keep up with my friends. After all, they all owned a bike. A big “26 incher.”

My oldest sister had owned a bike, and it was parked in our garage after she graduated from secretarial school, and got a full-time job in the International Harvesters office in Louisville. I do not ever remember ever seeing her ride it, and for that matter, neither had I seen my other two sisters riding it. As in most big families, a lot of things were passed down, and this “girls” bike was one of them. I remember seeing it sitting there in the garage, the tires flat, and it looking so sad. Well, at least, if it had been a person, it most certainly would have been very blue. In fact, it was painted an ugly, faded, blue and white, but it was a 26 incher. I was the last of four children, and the only boy, so I knew that a hand-me-down, “girl's bike” was not something I would ever ride. EVER!

I had learned to ride a bike on a small contraption, with a pulley instead of a chain to propel it. It had solid rubber tires, no air, and they were only about the size of the ones on my wagon. It wasn't much of a bike, even if my dad called it that. The rubber pulley was always slipping, and my dad was not very handy. Thank goodness for Tommy (Mr. Howerton to me, until I get older and could call him, Tommy). He was indeed, handy, and all the kids in the neighborhood came to him to have their bikes repaired. He never turned me away, and he must have tightened my bike pulley hundreds of times before I outgrew it. I was only 7 or 8 years old when I got it, and I rode that little rattle trap until I was at least ten, maybe eleven. Anyway, I was so ready for a 26 incher. I wanted to skip the 24” variety, and go right to the big one.

If you have followed this story you probably have guessed what happened next. I came home from the last day of elementary school in June of 1953, ready for summer, and my 12^th birthday, on June 16^th. I wanted a 26” Schwinn bike, exactly like Dannys, and Darrells, instead, as I walked up our back walk from the alley, I saw my sister's tired old bike sitting on the back porch. Someone, either mom or dad, had given it a bath, but believe me, to a young boy, with testosterone rising in his body, nothing could be worse than riding a girl's bike around our neighborhood, and around all my friends. It would mean maximum embarrassment, and a number of retaliations by me. In other words, I knew I would get into s lot of fights, and I wasn’t that well equipped for anything like that.

Dad saw me coming up the walk, and came outside to meet me. He saw my frown from a distance, and knew I was not a happy camper. It meant he was going to have to sell me hard, and I knew he was not going to take no for an answer. My dad worked at the L&N Railroad, and although he never lost his job, he also never made a lot of money. If you know someone who still had the first dollar he ever earned, then you may have met my dad, or at least someone like him. Frugal, would be a good description, tight, another. I guess he had to be, with a family of six to care for. At any rate, I was girded and ready for war by the time I reached the porch, and I dreaded it. Thankfully, mom came out on the porch at the last minute, and while she would not argue with dad it front of me, I knew she would work on him behind the scene.

Dad didn’t wait for my reaction. He said, “I can see you are not happy, but here's the deal, young man. This is a perfectly good bike, and the best thing is, its yours for the asking. Look, I know you have ridden that little bike all over the place, but I don't even know if you can ride a big bike. It's not easy, you know. You ride this one for awhile, and maybe, if you can master a big bike, we might look around for one you like better.” Ah, I thought, at last, an opening, so I said, “If I show you I can ride this bike, would you consider selling it, and using the money to buy me a boy's bike?” I knew that made sense, and he didn't think long before saying, “it’s a deal!”

I grabbed the handlebars of that bike, angled it down the two steps to the sidewalk, jumped on it, and rode it down the walk, into the alley, and away I went. I came right back a few minutes later, smiling of course. You see, my dad could not ride a bike; in all the years I knew him, when he tried to ride, he lost his balance. I knew he thought I couldn't do it, but I knew I could. I had him, and now I had to work on mom. I wanted that Schwinn, not someone’s used , probably beat up, bike. If I could get mom on my side, I could have that of which I had dreamed; a new Schwinn 26 incher, with a speed sprokit.

It only took a day or so, and on my birthday, dad and I took the bus Downtown, to Western Auto. I was disgusted, because I knew only the Schwinn store sold what I wanted. There would be nothing but cheap knockoffs at Western Auto. I was a captive participant, and had no idea how I could escape the inevitable. I was about to be given a boy’s bike that would equal the one my sister had, and I could already envision it. In a few years it would look sad, just like the one I had been riding around the last few days. At least I could choose a different color; maybe. My head was hanging pretty low when we arrived at Western Auto, and as we stepped inside, I don't believe I had ever seen that many ugly bikes in one spot. “Come over here,” dad said, and so I did, with every bit of disgust I could muster. “Now pick a color son,” he said. There was blue and white (ugh), red and white, green and white and maybe, yellow and white, I'm not sure. Everything had “white” as a second color. No chrome, no front springs, no turn signals, no nothing.

I started down the row of bikes, which I judged to be about the length of a football field. Endless! I was looking for “chrome,” and I thought I saw something sparkling near the end of the row. I did! Yes! It wasn't a Schwinn, but it was beautiful. I was all the way down this long row, and dad was still standing at the other end. He yelled, “look at this one, Jimmy!” We were far apart, and in more ways than one. The salesman approached, but walked right past me, to my father. I yelled, “hey dad look at this one!” He and the salesman stood looking back at me, and I could see they were having a conversation. I don't know what the salesman said to dad, but in a minute or so, they began walking toward me. Then I heard, “this one down here is our best model, and it's on sale.” At last, I had an ally. This salesman was going to help me get this shiny one. It had chrome fenders, a chrome horn box, a chrome front light, a horn, directional signals, rear lights, handle bar brakes on both sides, and the trim was apple green, not that putrid dark green, or blue like my sister's bike. This thing gleamed! The salesman !looked at dad and said, “it's normally $110, but its on sale for $95, a real!y good buy. “And,” he said, smiling, I can deliver this one tomorrow.”

The only thing it didn't have that I wanted? A speed sprocket. If you don't know what that is, it is the gear where the pedals extend. The speed gear had teeth which were closer together, which meant you could zip ahead of anyone, if you were racing. I knew the Schwinns cost $115, and so did dad. In my eyes, this would save him $20, and I was hoping he was thinking the same way. I could live without the speed sprocket, if dad could save a little face because of the savings. He made some comment about the cheaper bikes, like, “I don't know what’s wrong with that bike down at the other end, and it's only $45.” The salesman said, “We can work out payments sir, and your son sure loves this one.” What could dad say? The bike was mine, and it was to be delivered tomorrow.

Well, I was right. I couldn’t beat my friends with the Schwinn's, at least on the take off, but I found out that once I got going, I didn’t have to turn the pedals as much to keep cruising, and I thought my bike was prettier than theirs. I also thought they looked pretty funny turning the pedals two turns to my one turn. Going fast, I could leave them behind. More importantly, I also learned a little about my dad. I learned that he found it difficult to say no to a good salesman; maybe that had a bearing on my lifetime career as a salesman. Of course, I knew having mom on my side was more important than anything, and I now knew, that dad knew, that I knew.

There were many adventures with my beautiful, gleaming bike, and I just may have to write about a few more of them.