Last week, on Tuesday, I did the weather from the Plaza where they were preparing for the big Tour of Missouri bike race. Even at five in the morning, the excitement was so palatable and the athleticism so obvious, I experienced muscle aches, chafing and a mild bike-seat wedgie...and I was nowhere near a bicycle. It did get me thinking of all the bikes I've had over the years. (Larry Moore, in his Letter From Larry somewhere else here at thekansascitychannel.com, talks about his leisure time with big-wigs like Charles Gibson. I write about my Schwinns and Huffys.) The first bike I remember was a black Schwinn. No speeds or hand-brakes. Just a regular bike. I didn't ride it, at first. I was a passenger. One of my brothers, Mark, would put me on the bar between the handle-bars and the seat, then take me for a ride. (We'd hit some bumps now and then which explains why I was able to sing high tenor well into my 30s.) Now, that sounds like a wonderful big brother thing to do...and it was. However, as with most things, there was more afoot or a-pedal, than first meets the eye. It turns out that, for a teenager like my brother, having a cute, little brother riding shot-gun was a draw for girls. Yes, I was a chick-magnet. Of course, that talent sadly left me as I reached my own adolescence, adulthood and, now, second-childhood.

In a nice little Circle of Life or "bi-Cycle of Life" moment, years later, when I was a teenager, I put my nephew, the son of the brother who had let me tag along, in the newly affixed rider seat with hopes of using his cute, little mug to lure females in my direction. It didn't work although my nephew got several offers and phone numbers with the request to "look me up in about ten years."

The first bike of my very own that I recall was a little red sportster. No training wheels allowed! My brothers taught me how to ride by putting me on the seat and giving me a shove. Now, this was in the days before helmets and pads. I finally got the hang of it although, if you look carefully, you can still see the faint imprint of the words John Deere from the times I smashed into a tractor sitting nearby. I tooled around on that little bike for several years before I got to the next level: a fluorescent green three-speed Huffy with a banana seat, high handle-bars and an orange flag flying on the back. I got it for Christmas.

WARNING! The next portion of this story contains a graphic image. If you have children it won't faze you. If you don't, you may be totally disgusted. Here goes: That Christmas morning, I ran down the stairs to discover this Green Dream Ride parked next to the tree. I was over-joyed. I was also sick to my stomach. As I stood there next to my new bike, my brother, again it was Mark, came down the stairs to find me with a smile frozen on my face as certain biological circumstances took over. I was turning as green as the bike. I gurgled "It's my new bike. Isn't it neat? I'm going to be sick all over the carpet." Being a fast thinker, Mark picked me up by my ears and stood me in the bathtub. Being an ungrateful little snot, I whimpered "What about my new bike?" At that, Mark put the bike in the bathtub, too. I used that bike to go all over town. In those days, a kid could ride to the store, to the bowling alley, to the movie theater any time. I had a lot more autonomy than we give our kids today. I rode that bike down a gravel hill near the dam. We were not supposed to but we did. I wiped out a lot. That bike got me into high school.

At that point, I got a new ten-speed for my 15th birthday. (Again, coincidentally, I had the flu that day. Is there a connection? Bikes and illness? Sounds like a tease for the nightly news "IS YOUR BIKE TRYING TO KILL YOU? THE LATEST ON THE THREAT OF THIS BI-SICK-LE BLIGHT! TONIGHT! WATCH OR ELSE!") That bike was my connection to just about everywhere I needed to travel. It went through several paint jobs. It went everywhere from the golf course to the lake to work and home again. Finally, it just fell apart. It was my last real, all-my-own, bicycle.

Speaking of bikes, I have to mention the contraption our neighbor-lady used. She and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Moely, were retired farmers. They were in their 70s when we moved next door. He rode his bike all over town. She rode her trike. Yes, she had an adult-sized tricycle with a basket. She could do her grocery shopping and make it home in one piece. She didn't let us kids try out her ride very often but, once, when she wasn't home and I was hanging around with her grandson, I jumped on. I could not get the hang of it. I was trying to maintain my balance when you weren't really supposed to be doing so. I couldn't steer it. I couldn't make it move at all. I gained new respect for Mrs. Moely. After that, when she'd pull up next to me and say "Wanna drag?" I always passed.

Our other neighbor, Bob Ostrander, would come screaming down the street ringing the bell on his bike so his mom could run out and open the garage door. If she had ever been late, there would have been an awful mess to clean up.

Today, we have a garage filled with out-grown, over-used bikes. A few were bought brand-new, like the snazzy yellow number on which Taylor learned to do tricks until he discovered the skateboard and broke his arm...twice, but others are from garage sales. Those were always the best ones. Grandma and Grandpa, at the lake up north, found some great ones. Grandpa always took them to Ace Hardware to make sure they were tuned up and safe to ride. Then, we'd wedge them into the van somehow for the trip home. Those were and are great vehicles. We also bought a little blue one from our old neighbors, The Powells. Their boys had used it, too. There was not much tread left on the tires and the paint was a little chipped, but that garage sale purchase taught all our kids how to ride. We'll never get rid of that one. When the kids take me to Maplewood Nursing Home up in Wisconsin, they're going to have to make room for that old bike.

I ran along behind and beside most of those two-wheelers over the years and, then, made the mistake of telling my wife I'd like to have a bike of my own again. She went out and got one. Whoever said you never forget how to ride a bike is full of it. I never felt comfortable on that thing anymore. It wobbled all over the place. And, the seat! How could I have spent so many of my formative years on a painful bike seat and still be to move or sit or wear pants? Well, the kids eventually commandeered that bike and I was glad. I see men my age out on the roads early in the morning. Dressed like over-achieving peacocks. Helmets. Half-gloves. Spandex-ed to the max. I admire them and wish them well, but, for me, the days of riding a bike are done. The kickstand alone makes me sweat. Over the weekend, I even had to put training wheels on my recliner.