Life used to be so much simpler years ago.
I remember the joy I had whizzing on my two-wheeler along Lakeshore Road towards Niagara-on-the-Lake, unconcerned about speeding cars or potholes as I chatted with chums, totally unconcerned about the outfit I wore.
No cyclist wore a helmet in those days, nor did anyone have a sporty jacket emblazoned with a team or company name.
We had peanut butter and jam sandwiches in our pockets, and we knew we could get a drink of water at the fountain in the park.
We were simply kids riding our bikes and having fun. Our legs decided our speed. Our feet did the brake job and our arms and hands steered. There were no special gears to concern us and nobody cared what shoes we wore way back then.
Today, as I consider purchasing a stylish new bike that I may ride to Canada’s east coast later this summer, I’m overwhelmed by the plethora of styles, colours, fancy wheels, and other must-have gizmos in our bike shops.
I need to absorb all this new marketing information before deciding whether or not I’ll hand my credit card to that pleasant salesman.
As I browse the modern bikes, I recall how special it was to buy my five-year-old son his first two-wheeler and help him learn to balance himself.
Then, there was the blue three-speed CCM I bought second-hand from a neighbour. He was asking $100 for his wife’s bike. I couldn’t afford that. So, I sauntered down the street to chat and negotiated a deal that pleased us both. We settled for $30.00 cash and two large pans of my popular homemade cinnamon buns. I rode that bike for years before graduating to a motorbike.
That motorbike did not match my personality. It was too heavy and noisy, and I had to wear a helmet that messed my hair.
I might have put up with the helmet if it had sported a saucy red pompom, but, alas, it didn’t.