Most of our parents couldn’t afford to buy us bicycles.
They sacrificed and made ends meet. Food was always on the table. Warm beds. Old clothes. Maybe hand-me downs. But they were clean.
Chuy, from 4th grade, lived down the block where the nicer, single-family homes were. Brick bungalows with air conditioners.
The rest of us lived in diverse, two or three-flat apartments with window fans.
His parents had money, at least enough to own or rent a nice home and to buy Chuy and his bros bikes.
New bikes.
Schwinns. Huffys. 5-speeds. With banana seats.
One summer, his dad walked over to our end of the block where many of us kids played kick-the-can (botecito), dodge ball, or just sat around eating sunflower seeds from the corner shop, La Flor de Mexico.
We thought we had done something wrong as he approached. But as he got nearer we saw his smile.
He asked us if we wanted to come over and ride bikes with Chuy, and his younger bros, Luis and Tony. “Their bikes,” he generously said. Likely knowing that most of us, if not all of us, didn’t have the opportunity to have our own bikes.
He probably did it so Chuy and his bros would have friends to play with, and not so much for street equity.
You bet, a few of us walked down with her—to ride Chuy’s bikes!
For a couple of weeks we got to ride them through the alleys and streets, doing “poppa-wheelies”, zooming over plank ramps and over the flaming cardboards for thrills.
And Chuy and his bros got to make new friends.
But, our bike glory were short lived when his mom put it to a stop.
We were all in front of their bungalow, eating sunflower seeds under the summer sun with the bikes.
She yelled out for Chuy from behind their front door and Chuy reluctantly walked in. We heard his mom say to bring the bikes into the house. That we were bad kids and could not use the bikes.
That was the last time we played on that side of the block or hung out with Chuy or rode his bikes. We never say Chuy’s dad again.
Shortly after, our group of kids would round up our change from our “domingos” and go on Sundays to Maxwell street, where people sold everything, usually used, for a barter or a deal.
We bought cheap, old, used bikes until we all had one.
We customized each of those used, bikes with extended front forks, sissy bars, and streamers. We’d slot playing cards into the spokes for that rumble noise and jump ramps until our moms called for us from our apartment windows and porches at dusk.
We may have not deserved Chuy’s bikes. But we were good kids who wound up doing and building with what we had with own quarters and dollars. And enjoyed our summers to remember.
I’m so glad Chuy’s mom did what she did and how we didn’t react or internalize her disdain.
Chuy never rode with us again, as we’d zoom up and down the block and beyond in our makeshift, one-of-a-kind, bad-ass bikes.
Coaching for Hermanos
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