On Learning to Ride a Bike (In Brooklyn of Course)

We learned to ride bikes on the sidewalk, with our fathers running alongside, their hands extended, keys jangling in pockets, “Keep going Butch, pedal faster. You got it! Keep pedaling! Faster.”  Back then I was Jimmy Spinner Jr, but my father’s nickname for me was Butch. Don’t ask, I never knew why. There was risk in learning to ride a bike on East 4th St. Scraped knees, elbows, hands, and pain. City sidewalks are unforgiving, I guess all sidewalks are unforgiving. Our block had little pebbles mixed into a lot of the squares of sidewalk concrete to give it some texture? Because it was really painful, you HAD to pick it up quickly. 

For the first few months, most of us started with training wheels, but even at that young age, training wheels were embarrassing. Big boys and girls didn’t use training wheels. We all knew you had to start somewhere, so we knew in order to not get all scraped up every time we fell, training wheels were a necessary evil. The one cool thing about training wheels, after you swallowed your pride and understood that you needed the help, was if you positioned the training wheels correctly, on a spot of the sidewalk that was raised by a tree root let’s say, you would have one training wheel higher than the other. That would suspend the real back tire in mid-air and you could pedal furiously, faster and faster, spinning the tire and going nowhere. We’d do that and sometimes feed fallen leaves into the space between the tire and the fender, if the bike had one. We’d put sticks on the tire to watch them shoot out. In the ways of little boys, this was fun.

Our first real bikes had just one speed, metallic paint, banana seat, maybe some streamers flowing from the grips on the handle bars. These bikes only had rear brakes that you engaged by pedaling backwards to stop. After a few weeks, we lost our training wheels, and gained a few rules, but of course we wore no helmet, not in the 70’s.  Our parents told us that we had to stay on our block, as first or second graders we were not allowed to cross the street by ourselves. With this limited universe, our block, there were still plenty of adventures awaiting. Speed being held in high esteem on East 4^th St, as in most places, we raced each other. Short races, 50 yard dash. Long races, down half the block. Longer races. Up and down the whole block. Eventually we tried relay races. After that got boring, we were creative little guys, we’d create a steeplechase with wooden boards and milk-crate jumps and other obstacles.

One thing we prized was the ability to skid on your back tire. You’d head down the block, three or four houses down, maybe to Tommy Brennan’s house or even Bobby Wilson’s house and turn around. You’d wait until the coast was clear, we had a decent amount of pedestrian traffic on East Fourth, then pedal like crazy, standing up to go really fast, pumping, pumping, pumping, 30-40-50 yards, at maximum speed, choosing a primo spot, slamming on your brakes. Schhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, skidding, leaving a black rubber parentheses on the sidewalk. If you were really good, you could fish-tail the bike, something fancy to impress your friends.

We quickly discovered the parts of our slice of East 4^th Street sidewalk that had some character, where there were dips and bulges and maybe even something akin to a “hill.”  As soon as we were competent at riding bikes, we rode faster and we tried to jump stuff and pop wheelies. Some guys could pop a wheelie and keep going for a while, that was really cool. I never could get the wheelie thing down. A few doors down towards Avenue C, Toni-Ann Chiarello’s driveway had a bit of an incline. We could race down the block, and turn right, up her driveway and ride all the way into the back as there was never a car in the driveway. Then we’d turn around and race down the “hill.” Just an aside, Toni-Ann had the best, the absolute best, Matchbox Car collection on our block. We were all envious. Her father was a Milk-Man, he delivered milk and other necessities to families on his route. Mr. Chiarello and his daughter collected Matchbox cars, and it was a massive collection, in pristine collection, they even kept the boxes! Toni-Ann had a bunch of carry cases, these little light blue suitcases, with plastic separators in them, to hold ALL of her cars. It didn’t seem fair, to have that kind of a collection and not really enjoy it, she never even played with the cars! She just collected them. Left them in the boxes like little trophies. None of us had a "collection." Our cars were played with, that's what you were supposed to do with Matchboxes. My cars were scratched up, dirty from all the dirt tracks we made, and all the jumps and crashes we created. I know I seriously thought about befriending Toni-Ann just to play with her Matchboxes but decided it wouldn't be worth it. I bet you a few gallons of milk that collection is still intact somewhere.

Back to the bikes. One day, Michael Turin, one of the older guys on the block, discovered a jump.  About 5 houses down from my house, the last private house on the block, was Dr. Langsam’s house. Michael’s family rented the attic apartment. Their driveway was an anomaly, it had, what appeared to our 7 year old brains, a legit hill with a little concrete lip on the bottom, right before the sidewalk. We pedaled wildly, heading for the lip, a few final pedals and then coast into the ramp, whoop, you’d be airborne. The one fly in the ointment was the landing area was small, it was just the walkway to Dr. Langsam’s front porch, maybe 7 yards across. Pedal too hard, get too much air, and you’d be eating fence. 

After a few months of tooling around on our bikes on East 4th, we need a change of scenery. “Mom can’t we ride around the block? It’s getting soooo boring just riding up and down the block. We’re doing the same thing over and over. Please Mom? Please?”  Eventually, the reins are loosened, we are allowed to go around the block, at least some of us are. Some parents keep a tighter rein on their kids. These kids, if they didn’t want to risk the wrath of their parents, would have to stop at the corner of Avenue C. There they'd straddle their bikes and watch us pedal across the avenue, past the Longmore’s house, we'd give a glance to P.S. 179 lurking across the street, and zip out of sight down East 3^rd Street. Biking down East 3^rd, we didn’t explore as much, we knew we were interlopers on this foreign block. Whizzing past Big Mike Sylvestri’s house, we'd look to see if Mike was petting his big Collie on the porch. Our crew really liked Mike because he was one of the older guys that was nice to us. He’d even stick up for us when some of the neighborhood toughs in the P.S. 179 school yard messed with us. Past the Carpenzano’s, their house was directly behind mine, I’d glance at the rear view of my house as I raced past, that was always so cool, to see your house from a different perspective. Further down, we’d pass by the Paragallo’s house, in writing this, it certainly seems like East 3^rd Street was the home of several large, Italian families. Rolling to Beverly Road, coasting in because there’s more foot traffic on the Avenue, pedestrians from the F train station on McDonald Avenue and shoppers returning from Church Avenue, our neighborhood’s Main Street, we make a right turn.  Across Beverly Road, in front of the Glenn Briar Apartment Building, its symmetrical orange-brick mass, entrance in the center, even number of windows and floors on either side providing the backdrop, it felt like you were going really fast as the windows whizzed past. Our route almost complete, we come upon the mail box that marks the beginning of our block.

At first we were excited with this accomplishment: we had gone around the block! One thing that never entered our mind, which would definitely enter the minds of kids today, was a fear of being abducted. Don’t get me wrong, in the Brooklyn of the early 70’s we had plenty of things to fear: stray cats, neighborhood tough guys, dogs, cars, but non-descript white vans patrolling for unsuspecting victims was not on our list. Heading back up East 4^th Street, along the side of the Glenn Briar, listening in on conversations in some first floor apartments, under the fire escape, and you begin to feel at home, safe, back on our block.

Riding bikes, so much fun, so many adventures. The progression continued, next we were allowed to cross the street, and then ride our bikes in the street. Somewhere around 6^th or 7^th grade, our parents let us start exploring the neighborhood on our bikes. This opened up a whole new universe for us. New blocks, new kids, and eventually, new neighborhoods and adventures. The bicycle, our vehicle of freedom. Summer of 8th grade we were biking down to Breezy Point to go to the beach for the day. Or biking down to Sheepshead Bay to go fishing. From an early age, that movement, the speed, was an escape for us. To this day, when I get on my bike, there's a little bit of that kid still in me. 

Fragmentation

This past summer, the travel gods conspired so that I was driving to our Adirondacks house with 4 boys, and no adults. Our annual trip to the Adirondacks with the Jorgensens had taken an interesting detour.  Usually we are a caravan, 2 vehicles packed to the brim with 9 people, 3 dogs and the trappings of summer vacation. This past year I had a 6 hour ride ahead of me and no navigator as all the boys- Brian, Charlie, Dane and Holt-chose to sit in the rear of our SUV. Nobody wanted to ride with the old man up front.   I had the FM airwaves to myself and other than that, complete silence as the boys were streaming Youtube videos, perusing Instagram, or watching DVD’s on their laptops…each in their own electronic cocoon.

Considering it’s the better part of six hours, I actually like the ride. For the first hour you’re getting rural, quickly, winding north up Connecticut’s Route 8. Then, a short jaunt west on Route 20 to the Mass Pike and eventually you’re on Interstate 87 North around Albany.  The terrain gets more and more mountainous as you head north past Saratoga and Lake George. Finally, exit the Northway at Exit 30 and traverse west on Route 73 through the high peaks of the Adirondack Mountains. The trip is varied enough, and so picturesque, that it’s not mind numbing. Actually, the opposite happens, you find yourself, thinking.

 Somewhere around Schenectady, “Daniel” by Elton John comes on the radio and I’m singing along, “And I can see Daniel waving good-bye, God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes…” A melancholy feel overcomes me as scenes of long ago summers flutter through my brain.  I’m picturing a transistor radio tuned to WABC, AM, providing the soundtrack to our childhood: stickball with my buddies on East 4^th Street, Bomb Pops from Morris our ice cream man, games of tag around the pool at Twin Willows Cabins on our family vacations to the Poconos.  Oh those budding adolescent boys looking longingly at the Billard sisters, Lisa and Lynn, as they sun themselves on the concrete structure, painted swimming-pool blue, that houses the pool’s machinery.  

I look over my right shoulder to Brian, he’s right behind the passenger seat, “THIS SONG CAME OUT WHEN I WAS ABOUT YOUR AGE.” Brian, startled, removes his ear buds and humors me for a few minutes before heading back into his electronics. Back on my own I’m thinking…Most people of my generation would have a similar response to Elton John’s, “Daniel.”  The guys and gals from my neighborhood, some who had the actual 45 (that’s a record for you youngsters), would have similar memories connected to the songs from the 70’s and 80’s. There are so many songs that I could play, Motown tunes like Diana Ross’s “Ain’t no Mountain High Enough” or AM Pop one-hit wonders like Pilot with “Magic” that would elicit a wealth of similar memories for all of us.  If I were to play Thin Lizzy’s, “The Boys are Back in Town” I can predict, with pretty good accuracy, the flashback images of my friends. We’d have a great conversation about hanging out on Brooklyn street corners, tossing the football or Frisbee around, busting each other’s chops, growing up fast…

Continuing past Lake George on my right, my thoughts meander to a recent rainy day; an unseasonably cold June day, more November than approaching summer, the perfect day for a movie.  I lobbied my kids and my wife throughout the day for a family movie.   It was like trying to catch night crawlers with a spoon. My three boys were playing X-Box, streaming Youtube videos  and my wife was binge-watching episodes of,  “Orange is the New Black.” Nobody was interested in watching a movie together.  I’m not usually the type to bemoan the loss of the old days, well maybe I am sometimes, but I do see that progress is usually a good thing. I can’t help in this instance, as we have moved away from ABC, NBC and CBS towards hundreds of channels and customized programming, but think that as we’ve gained choices we’re losing quite a bit as a family and as a society.

Human beings need to connect to each other. It makes us feel less alone, we find comfort in our commonalities . Meeting someone new, we always look for connections. Don’t we always play the name game when you meet someone new?

“Oh, you’re from, Huntington, you might know my buddy, Ira Goldstein? “

“I see you went to Indiana, maybe you know…”

 “My whole family read the Percy Jackson series, did you guys read it?”

And the possibilities for finding common ground are decreasing.  Today we are all secluded, zombie-like, just like Ray Bradbury warned us…we are disconnecting from the rest of the world and this isn’t a good thing.  So many of the posts we see on Facebook, in all of these, "I Grew Up in___________ in the 60's, 70's..." mention the feeling of community we had in our neighborhoods, in our towns, on our blocks...and we miss it and I think we need it back.

 

People of a certain age all know who The Fonz is, we recognize his signature phrase, “Ayyyy” and the thumbs-up. “Bang Zoom to the Moon” we all know is Ralph talking to Alice Kramden. Say things like, “NORM!” or “Yadda Yadda Yadda” and we will all know your reference. In a sense, we speak the same language, there’s a lexicon for people who grew up in the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s…Future generations won’t have this, our  limitless choices are taking care of that. 

The best example of this was Roots. We all remember the mini-series about slavery and America’s history that captivated the entire country. It was on 6 or 7 nights in a row and it felt like EVERYONE was watching it. We talked about it at school, around the dinner table, at the office, on our stoops. Kunta Kinte was everywhere.  Current generations are living in their Ipod world, streaming their individual soundtracks and customizing their own viewing experiences.  Everyone is watching, something else. That Roots phenomenon will never happen again. Sure it felt like a lot of us were watching Breaking Bad, The Wire and Mad Men…but in comparison, the percentage of the population was not even close.

 

 

Think about any recent conversation you’ve had with someone about TV shows. Was it a meandering conversation about a bunch of shows that you loved and a bunch of shows that they loved but you had few in common?

“I’m watching, ‘Shameless’ have you seen that? It’s great.”

“No, but I’ve heard good things. You know what I’m watching? I’m watching ‘Homeland.’  Have you seen “Homeland?” 

“No, but you know what I did really love?”

More than likely you came away with recommendations for new shows to watch and not much of a connection. Satellite TV is giving us hundreds choices but it’s secluding us.

And it's happening in our fan affiliations too. In our neighborhood, everybody rooted for the local teams. You were a Met or a Yankee fan. In hoops, mostly Knicks. Hockey? Rangers or Islanders. Of course there were a few outliers but I can tell you, to this day, what teams my boyhood friends rooted for. As a matter of fact, whenever we catch up, that’s always a topic of conversation.  One of the first things you’ll hear is, “Mets look good.”

“Yeh, if the pitching holds up.” When I talk to my sons today, their friends will just as easily be Portland Trail Blazer or St. Louis Cardinals fans.  It’s all so individualistic; when these guys catch up in 10 or 20 years it’ll be, “So you still a Trailblazers fan?”  “Yes.”  Zzzzz… When I catch up with Ronny Lopez, who was a huge Islander fan like me, we talk about games at the Nassau Coliseum, we talk about the four Stanley Cups, about Trottier, Bossy, Gillies…We talk about how the team looks today. With other friends we’ll talk about the Mets of today and the ’86 Mets, and the ticker tape parade, about Lenny Dykstra and Dwight Gooden…

And if this piece is about electronic cocoons, I have to mention video games. It’s such an isolative activity. Besides the fact that most games are ultra-violent, they keep kids indoors, not socializing, not getting fresh air, there’s something very wrong with this. Kids are happiest when they are outside, running around, together.  Sure you can say some of the recent games kids play together but it's just not the same thing. Not too long ago, I took a long bike ride with a couple of old friends from the neighborhood. We actually went from our old neighborhood in Brooklyn, out to Breezy Point and back, rolling through Windsor Terrace, Kensington, Midwood, Gravesend, Marine Park, Flatbush and back again. It was the perfect warm fall day, and in that 4 hour ride it was eerie, we didn’t see one touch football game, not one stickball game, no kids playing punch ball, nobody jumping rope. It was nothing like the Brooklyn we grew up in. This can’t be good. I can’t help but think that if Adam Lanza just got outside more, socialized more, people would have known him, maybe he would have had a few friends? Maybe he would have been happier? Or someone would have noticed he was in danger and gotten him the help he needed? Instead he was sequestered in his basement, with hefty bags covering the windows, playing Grand Theft Auto. In his, it turned out, very dangerous electronic dungeon.

Maybe, if we were finding it easier to connect these days, we wouldn’t be so polarized, politically? Maybe it would be easier for us to find common ground if we already had quite a bit? Instead of antagonizing and labeling maybe we would start with the realization that we have a lot more in common than we think? And starting from those commonalities, maybe polite discourse and compromise would be a possibility? 

Now I don’t know what the answer is, it’s just something I noticed and I thought maybe other people have noticed it too? I know we are not going to go “backward” but are there better ways for us to continue to connect to each other?