Chrome and Steel

The winter of 1960 was long and cold. The ground frozen stiff and covered with snow. Months passed as though years of their own, because I was waiting. Waiting since my birthday before Christmas. Waiting and wishing I could get outside and ride my new bike!
Having a birthday so close to Christmas meant that I’d usually get one big really neat present from Mom and Dad, and on December 20th, 1959 I'd get my second two-wheeler bike; my second West German Rixe.
This time it was red and sleek, unencumbered by mousetraps on the back, and no more balloon tires. This was a big kid’s bike, a 20 inch model, with the cool Rixe shield on the handle bar stem. Having a European bicycle always made me feel different from the other kids, a little more cool and somewhat exotic. Everybody else had Schwinns and Raleighs and Columbias, but I was the only boy around with an honest- to- goodness, West German, Teutonic-engineered, winged shield-emblazoned Rixe!
The first truly warm day I was out there ready to saddle up on my shiny new red beauty. I was a little awkward, and I couldn’t seem to mount it. My new bike seemed too big for me, I couldn’t get on, and when I did I couldn’t keep my balance long enough to start riding. My father’s temper in me came rising up, and I threw my new bike to the ground in disgust. "What a piece of junk! I’ll never be able to ride this thing, it’s too big for me. I’ll just keep riding my old one."
Dad reminded me that the green Rixe was now Carl’s bike, and if I wanted to ride, then I’d get up on the new red one and start pedaling.
After a lot of falling and fussing and fuming I finally got the hang of it. Riding this new bike meant more freedom. I could ride out in the street, and not just to Trackie’s store, but down to the Madden’s house and all the way to school! No more kid’s stuff for me. I was ready for the open road, the highway to adventure!
I was a fighter pilot knocking down Russian Migs over Korea. I was the Red Baron in the skies of World War One. In the evening I rode through Mrs. Price’s Sleepy Hollow as fast as any Ichabod Crane, and I led the Seventh Cavalry to the Little Big Horn.
Around the lake now and up past Freund’s Cliff to Chestnut Hill, the steepest point in Woodbury Heights. You’d try with all your might to ride up Chestnut Avenue, but your legs would give out halfway , and you’d have to walk it to the summit. The way down was your reward. Faster and faster you’d go, the wind hitting you full in the face and chest. Hitting you so hard you almost closed your eyes. If you gained enough speed you could clear the next rise in the street and sail on down to Boundary Road and out of town into Deptford.
Up to the high ground in town. Fairview and Clearview and Grandview. Riding past the Tyco HO train factory and down Glassboro Road. Across Glassboro Road to Academy and the long straightaway to see how really fast you could pedal or how long you could go without holding the handle bars.
Just to ride and be free. Magnificent steeds of chrome and steel powered by legs and imagination and chains black with grease. Your right pants leg rolled up so it wouldn’t get caught in the links, and the air rushing by as you sped ‘round a curve. The first real adventure when you’d ride all the way to the center of Woodbury to buy toy soldiers at the hobby shop or comic books at the newsstand. Braving the traffic on Route 45 as you crossed into Oak Valley and on up to Mantua, through Wenonah and back home.
My new red Rixe would be as trusty as any cowboy’s horse, as tough as any fighter plane, as swift as any motorcycle, and our rides together would be legendary.
Legendary in my mind. The legends in every kid's mind.
To bikes!
To freedom!