My first bike was a red junker, probably a small Columbia ballooner, circa 1960.
I kept asking my dad, who was a jerk, for a bike. Everybody in the family said I was too small and couldn’t ride a bike. I knew that I could, if given a chance. My dad finally told me that he would get me a bike for my birthday, but if I couldn’t ride it he would return it.
Told you he was an *ss$(%,£!.
Anyway, I got my bike, a rusted out, beat up, piece of junk. The wheels turned....
I think he bought it at a secondhand store, probably for less than $5.
He thoughtfully stacked the odds against me by putting it in a very small, dark, basement for my initial riding test.
I knew it was do or die.
I got on, peddled with tremendous resolve, furiously shimmied the front wheel back and forth to keep from falling over, all while having to turn inside the small oval basement floor.
I rode the bike several laps around the basement floor, much to my families amazement and my fathers chagrin.