Ever since my retirement eighteen years ago, working people have asked me if I am able to keep myself entertained and not suffer boredom. "I'm so busy I don’t know how I had any time to work for a living," I tell them. I spend a couple of hours writing during weekday mornings, bicycle into the countryside on my trusty Trek two-wheeler early afternoons, and then report to work at my hot rod garage after returning home.
As to cycling, there are two times I don't ride outdoors, including when the roads are covered in ice or the temperature falls below thirty degrees.
During what seems like the endless days of Wisconsin winter with its icy roads and freezing temperatures, I ride the stationary Schwinn Airdyne in our basement with the radio blaring for my one-half hour of excruciating exercise. Although it's half the time I spend on my outdoor trips, time spent on the Airdyne's saddle seems forever and endless. As I continuously check the time on the bike's computer in order to reckon how much time I have left, I am invariably dismayed. Spinning pedals on the Airdyne can't even begin to compete with outdoor cycling. Simply, the Airdyne's an exercise machine, nothing more, and there's no fun in plain vanilla exercising.
Riding a bicycle outdoors has been a blessing ever since my father, Dr. James J. Smullen, Jr., purchased my first bicycle instead of my being forced to run off for a short while with my older brothers' bikes. Older brothers were not at all pleased I "stole" their two-wheeled machines. Pounding me with fists was their warning not to do it again.
On May 8, 1947, Dad surprised me by asking me to accompany him in the Oldsmobile for a ride. Unexpectedly as we exited the car, I saw that Dad had driven to the hallowed Bring's bicycle shop. Inside the store were parked at least a dozen brand new rides. "Pick out the bike you want," Dad said. "It's your birthday present."
Since I turned eight that day, naturally, I chose "The Phantom," advertisements for it found on the rear covers of many comic books. It was Schwinn's most expensive bike, a shiny two-tone maroon and black single speed two-wheeler with a fawn colored leather saddle, a pair of black springs at its rear to “lessen the harshness of the ride,” a spring up front to give the bike true suspension, flattening out bumpy roads, fat balloon whitewall tires clinched to chrome rims, a built-in headlight on the front fender, and a battery operated horn with chrome button. I pressed the horn's button a number of times as the mechanism bugled back to me.
Did I want that bike, or what? Unfortunately, ownership of The Phantom didn't take place. Instead, after checking his wallet, Dad bought a cheaper model, the horror, but it didn't take long to accept his choice or return home without my own brand new bicycle. Although my red and cream Schwinn did not yet sport a bicycle license plate, I rode it all the way home, sporting a perpetually wide grin. Thereafter, I fell in love with the freedom of mobility without getting pounded by older brothers. I also visited the police station and purchased my license plate. I no longer had to remain in the surrounding neighborhood of Wisconsin Street in Wisconsin Rapids, Wisconsin, because Paul and Glen Danielson or Bobby and Jimmy Kell and I would ride into the countryside, often laying our bikes down in tall weeds near the road or parking them against and behind trees in privately owned woods so the landowners wouldn't see us.
Taking with us shiny tin cans with wire handles, formerly holding honey or Crisco or paint, we picked blueberries or blackberries so our moms might make and bake for the entire family sweet berry pies that night or the next. A scoop of vanilla ice cream placed on top of hot berry pie was to die for. Although we preferred picking blackberries since they were the size of our thumbs and filled our cans much faster than blueberries, filling pails with blueberries seemed to take as long as forever for young boys. Wild blueberries are not nearly as large as the ones found for sale in contemporary supermarkets.
If we chose not to go berry picking, we could ride out to our favorite swimming hole and go skinny dipping in a coffee-colored, icy cold stream near Biron, Wisconsin, its ever cold water used mainly to replenish cranberry bogs. At that swimming hole, my oldest brother, Jim, told me to pee on an electrified barbwire fence in order to see what happened. Eager to please, I was knocked to the ground. That was the last time I peed on barbwire, electrified or not.
If skinny dipping or berry picking wasn't on the day's menu, we'd take our swimsuits and ride the four and one-half miles to Lake Wazeecha because the city's swimming pool used river water, sometimes with human feces floating on top. There were times we'd head to Wazeecha, taking only our fishing gear and cans of angleworms in order to catch enough bluegills and perch in order to secure a family fish fry. After it got dark on autumn nights, we’d ride out to fields where farmers grew watermelons. After Paul and Glen claimed one night a farmer used a shotgun with rock salt in it and scared the hell out of them, that was the end of our forays into watermelon stealing.
After grade school, l entered high school. I wouldn't even look at a bike although my walk to St. Mary's school on the other side of the river (our new high school was being erected on our side of the river) was over a mile away. Bicycles were for kids, and I was no longer a kid. That attitude toward human-powered two-wheelers changed much later in life when I became a long-distance cyclist.
As to cycling, there are two times I don't ride outdoors, including when the roads are covered in ice or the temperature falls below thirty degrees.
During what seems like the endless days of Wisconsin winter with its icy roads and freezing temperatures, I ride the stationary Schwinn Airdyne in our basement with the radio blaring for my one-half hour of excruciating exercise. Although it's half the time I spend on my outdoor trips, time spent on the Airdyne's saddle seems forever and endless. As I continuously check the time on the bike's computer in order to reckon how much time I have left, I am invariably dismayed. Spinning pedals on the Airdyne can't even begin to compete with outdoor cycling. Simply, the Airdyne's an exercise machine, nothing more, and there's no fun in plain vanilla exercising.
Riding a bicycle outdoors has been a blessing ever since my father, Dr. James J. Smullen, Jr., purchased my first bicycle instead of my being forced to run off for a short while with my older brothers' bikes. Older brothers were not at all pleased I "stole" their two-wheeled machines. Pounding me with fists was their warning not to do it again.
On May 8, 1947, Dad surprised me by asking me to accompany him in the Oldsmobile for a ride. Unexpectedly as we exited the car, I saw that Dad had driven to the hallowed Bring's bicycle shop. Inside the store were parked at least a dozen brand new rides. "Pick out the bike you want," Dad said. "It's your birthday present."
Since I turned eight that day, naturally, I chose "The Phantom," advertisements for it found on the rear covers of many comic books. It was Schwinn's most expensive bike, a shiny two-tone maroon and black single speed two-wheeler with a fawn colored leather saddle, a pair of black springs at its rear to “lessen the harshness of the ride,” a spring up front to give the bike true suspension, flattening out bumpy roads, fat balloon whitewall tires clinched to chrome rims, a built-in headlight on the front fender, and a battery operated horn with chrome button. I pressed the horn's button a number of times as the mechanism bugled back to me.
Did I want that bike, or what? Unfortunately, ownership of The Phantom didn't take place. Instead, after checking his wallet, Dad bought a cheaper model, the horror, but it didn't take long to accept his choice or return home without my own brand new bicycle. Although my red and cream Schwinn did not yet sport a bicycle license plate, I rode it all the way home, sporting a perpetually wide grin. Thereafter, I fell in love with the freedom of mobility without getting pounded by older brothers. I also visited the police station and purchased my license plate. I no longer had to remain in the surrounding neighborhood of Wisconsin Street in Wisconsin Rapids, Wisconsin, because Paul and Glen Danielson or Bobby and Jimmy Kell and I would ride into the countryside, often laying our bikes down in tall weeds near the road or parking them against and behind trees in privately owned woods so the landowners wouldn't see us.
Taking with us shiny tin cans with wire handles, formerly holding honey or Crisco or paint, we picked blueberries or blackberries so our moms might make and bake for the entire family sweet berry pies that night or the next. A scoop of vanilla ice cream placed on top of hot berry pie was to die for. Although we preferred picking blackberries since they were the size of our thumbs and filled our cans much faster than blueberries, filling pails with blueberries seemed to take as long as forever for young boys. Wild blueberries are not nearly as large as the ones found for sale in contemporary supermarkets.
If we chose not to go berry picking, we could ride out to our favorite swimming hole and go skinny dipping in a coffee-colored, icy cold stream near Biron, Wisconsin, its ever cold water used mainly to replenish cranberry bogs. At that swimming hole, my oldest brother, Jim, told me to pee on an electrified barbwire fence in order to see what happened. Eager to please, I was knocked to the ground. That was the last time I peed on barbwire, electrified or not.
If skinny dipping or berry picking wasn't on the day's menu, we'd take our swimsuits and ride the four and one-half miles to Lake Wazeecha because the city's swimming pool used river water, sometimes with human feces floating on top. There were times we'd head to Wazeecha, taking only our fishing gear and cans of angleworms in order to catch enough bluegills and perch in order to secure a family fish fry. After it got dark on autumn nights, we’d ride out to fields where farmers grew watermelons. After Paul and Glen claimed one night a farmer used a shotgun with rock salt in it and scared the hell out of them, that was the end of our forays into watermelon stealing.
After grade school, l entered high school. I wouldn't even look at a bike although my walk to St. Mary's school on the other side of the river (our new high school was being erected on our side of the river) was over a mile away. Bicycles were for kids, and I was no longer a kid. That attitude toward human-powered two-wheelers changed much later in life when I became a long-distance cyclist.
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