Bicycles

It was late. Dark. We were expected to be home by sundown, but we almost never started home until the sun had already disappeared. By the time the sky morphed into custard colored curtains, Spencer and I knew our bikes would not get us back home in time to be saved from a long speech about how it’s not safe to be out alone at night.
“It’s a scary world, out there,” my Dad would say. It became almost a joke, as he said this every time someone left the house.
I never took the warning lightheartedly, however, because one afternoon a jogger was kidnapped off of the bike trail that ran through the back of our neighborhood. Apparently, she got raped, but I didn’t understand how people knew that if she was still missing. I think parents tend to assume the worst, especially when a girl is the victim. Or maybe our parents embellished the story a bit just to prove their point.
Derek never had to worry as much about getting home on time because he lived in the back of the neighborhood, along the row of new houses. We mostly rode around in this part of the neighborhood, but I didn’t like it as much. The houses were all painted white and had two stories. They seemed to stand all huddled, all the way down the street, as if the designers were afraid there wouldn’t be enough kids to fill up the playground.
I liked living in the front of the neighborhood. Spencer’s house lay on the row behind mine, a couple of houses down. Almost every day, after school, I ran down the street, cut through his next-door neighbor’s yard and knocked on his door.

They were called “chromies”, a name probably dubbed by some middle schooler, or maybe Derek’s older brother. Chromies screw onto the inside of car tires, where the air is pumped in.
The three of us, and probably kids from other neighborhoods, stole these fascinating, little objects. The greatest one we ever found was an eight-ball; well, Derek found it. Usually we scouted for these treasures together, but it was whoever had the guts to run up to the car, take the time to unscrew them, and escape before anyone ever came out of the house, that got to flaunt their merchandise on their bike tires the next day.
The eight-ball happened to belong to a huge black truck and, as my dad said, men with big trucks have something to prove; except, the exact quote goes a little differently. With both kids behind you, on their bikes and already in position to make a quick escape, nerves go crazy and your adrenaline starts pumpin’ real hard when it’s your turn to make a steal. There were many kinds; flat-tops and round-tops, those didn’t receive a great deal of respect; rubber ones, which basically were not even worth stealing; and once, Spencer found a yellow with a smiley face. It remains debatable whether the smiley face was actually stolen. He could have easily bought it at the Bike Doctor.
The chromie days ended the day we took them off of Spencer’s mom’s car. Derek stayed home that day and as a result we had nobody to tell us that this was a bad idea. It happened to be the day before Mrs. Evans took her car to get the tires filled up with air.
Needless to say, Spencer had to spill the beans. I don’t blame him; I would have done the same. Actually, if he had stolen from my mom I probably would have knocked him out. Having to apologize to your best friend’s mother, however, can turn out to be quite humiliating.
Mrs. Evans could have been my second mother. I could be reached at their phone number about as easily as my own. Stealing chromies was like a game, but having to confess our involvement took the fun right out of it.

The neighborhood became our town. Bikes were our vehicles. As with all vehicles, the bikes had to be tested. Spencer’s bike was light and cheap, but good for getting air off jumps. His bike usually became the candidate for destructive tests; however, Spencer took pride in his bike and no one used it for those tests. Derek’s bike was one of those real BMX bikes which were heavy and hard to ride. He always could perform nice tricks, but when I hopped on the magic had left. Each of us fit our own transport perfectly.
Near the back of the neighborhood there stood a three foot lip on the side of the road. Other kids had carved through it with their bikes and had made a perfect launching ramp. It was a perfect place for us to show off our tricks.
I needed to practice jumping the ramp, alone. After school, when I knew Spencer and Derek were not home, I rode to the ramp and started practicing. On the first jump, as I lifted off the ground my foot slipped off the pedal and the metal spikes went into my knee as both the bike and my body soared through the air. The cut went deep, but it took a second for the blood to start. Riding home, a bit shaky from the accident, ideas for what I would tell my mom flowed in and out of my head. I had a few ready, but the compassion came as a surprise. There was no need for a story. No need for an explanation.
The stitches earned me some respect. There were four and all metallic blue.