Pedaling again, with love

By Frank Phillips

I have rejoined the pedal generation.

I am once again pedaling a bicycle; the wheeled vehicle I first loved.

Bicycling is good for the environment, it sends a message to the oil barons; it’s healthy ...

OK, so the real reason is that we are down to one vehicle this summer. Our daughter has the truck in Ohio and I’m too cheap to buy a third vehicle.

I know, I know ... if you always have just one car, you probably say, “What else is in the paper?” and turn the page.

But wheels have always been important to the Phillips family. We even earned our living from wheels for at least two generations.

Grandpa Phillips, Dad and my uncle were all railroad men; Grandpa Zellers ran a grain elevator that served the railroad industry.

While I certainly loved my pedal tractor from ages 3 to 6; it was my first bicycle that stole my heart.

At age 6, I spent the summer collecting newspapers with my friend, Rick, who lived across the street. At the time, we could get $15 per ton for used newspapers. Being several years older, he had a garage full of old papers (a fire hazard back then, but who knew?) while I had a few pasteboard boxes of the black and white treasure despite repeated trips through the neighborhood pulling my red Radio Flyer (another important set of wheels!).

One evening in August, the day before my birthday, Mom gave me a few newspapers and sent me out to our garage. There, parked in front of boxes containing my faltering recycling business inventory was a brand new red and white Raleigh 20-inch bicycle. It had training wheels and colored plastic streamers flowing from the handlebars. It also had reflectors hanging from the wheel hubs. The reflectors reflected very little since 1) I wasn’t allowed to ride it after dark and 2) the straps on the reflectors were constantly turning, making “tinkling” sounds as they moved with the spokes.

It had a new bike smell! You know — new rubber, a new vinyl seat and a tinge of the grease used in the 1950s to lubricate bicycles.
Over the next few years, the training wheels, fenders, tinkling reflectors and the handlebar streamers were taken off. A banana seat and high handlebars were added.

• • •

Fast forward to 1971. I bought my first car and it, too, was great. It was a 1964 Plymouth with a pushbutton gear shift. To the left of the steering wheel was a set of push buttons corresponding to Drive, Reverse, etc. Park was set via a lever next to the buttons.

The car also had a peeling roof, revealing the peacock blue car had once been white, but who cared? It cost $400 and the price was right. Oh, it also overheated when you drove faster than 40 mph, but who cared? I loved that car.

• • •

Fast forward to the late 1990s. I was driving by a car lot in Ladoga, Ind., when a bright yellow Ford Ranger pickup truck spoke to me.

“Hey, Bud!” it said. “Come here.”

I slammed on the brakes of my pickup and checked it out from bumper to bumper.

I knew I couldn’t afford it, so I sighed and went on with my business.

A few days later, I was leaving a gas station when an older gentleman T-boned my truck.

His insurance company settled and I had enough to pay off the truck with enough left over for a downpayment on a different vehicle.
My little yellow friend in the Ladoga car lot once again called to me.

I called the dealership and asked about the yellow Ford Splash.

"Let me find out how much that lists for,” he said. Coming back to the phone he said, “I can’t believe how low this price is!” Turning his head, he said to someone nearby, “Are you sure this is the right price?”

I’m not totally swayed by a solid chassis and nice coat of paint, so I did a little research on the Internet and lo, the price was right.
I had found another set of wheels to love!

Everyone at work teased me about the truck -- “Frank’s going through his second childhood,” they said (actually, something less polite). “That can’t be YOUR truck, please tell me it’s your son’s!” our Editor said.

But who cared?

If you look at the front page of last Saturday’s paper, you will see her. She is sitting next to the girl modeling the Car Show T-shirt. Isn’t she beautiful? (I mean the truck.)

But, we’re separated for the summer. *Sigh.*

My daughter took her to Ohio for her summer internship.

Now I’m back on two wheels. My friend, John, who lives in Ohio, is recuperating from a bicycle injury; but who cares?

My new bike doesn’t have the attraction for me that first bicycle did when I was 6 years old. But I enjoy it.

And, yes, I do miss my daughter more than the truck.

I do!