Schwinn for the Win!

Bike riding today—at least in my worldview—seems to be more for middle-aged folks trying to burn off last night’s lasagna than an actual mode of transportation. Back in the ‘70s, in Ogdensburg, a bike was your ticket to freedom, adventure, and, most importantly, trouble. It wasn’t a hobby. It wasn’t for “exercise.” It was a necessity, a way to get to another place where you could find trouble.

If you wanted to go somewhere, you rode. No car? No problem. No parents playing chauffeur—unless it was the dead of winter, and even then, plenty of us still pedaled through the snow or icy roads. I went everywhere on my bike: from the motel up on Route 37 to our camp across from Mater Dei, down to the State Hospital grounds, and even over to Prescott, Canada, a couple of times to see girls. That’s right—international bike travel. And during shad fly season, no less. If that’s not bravery, I don’t know what is.

But as every kid knows, a bicycle is more than just a mode of transportation—it’s a physics experiment waiting to happen. And for boys of a certain age, there is one undeniable, universal truth: if you have a bike, you must try to jump it over something.

These were the golden days of Evel Knievel. The man was leaping over rows of buses and snake pits on a motorcycle, and we, with our immature little boy brains, figured we could achieve similar levels of glory—only on a secondhand Schwinn with a wobbly front tire and brakes that worked most of the time.

And so, the great Ramp Experiment of ‘73 was born. There are two kinds of education, I would learn - stuff in school and stuff in the real world.

I built a simple ramp—plywood and cinder blocks. No engineering, no testing, just blind faith in the structural integrity of scrap wood. My mother, who had been busy with her motel chambermaid duties, spotted me mid-construction and shouted, “You’ll crack your head open!”

This, of course, was just the sort of encouragement a 10-year-old Knievel-in-training needed.

On my first attempt, a bit of fear had seeped in, and I went too slow over the ramp and the front wheel dropped just over the cinder blocks, throwing me forward, where I made an elegant landing—palms first. If you’ve never skidded across the pavement on bare skin, I assure you it is an unforgettable sensory experience. My hands looked like I had attempted to stop a belt sander with them.

Determined to defy gravity and get so much airtime I would need ATC clearance,  I went faster.

This time, I hit the ramp at full speed, bracing for the moment of airborne glory. The plywood, however, had other plans. It snapped in half under the force, and I was launched—not gracefully, not intentionally—just launched over the handlebars again.

I hit the ground headfirst.

Dazed, I sat up, blinking. Ma always called me a “hard head,” - but I learned at that moment that it was not because my head was made of Kevlar; it was about my lack of will to listen to smarter people.

Something cool dripped down the back of my neck. Water? Sweat? Oh no. Blood.

A lot of blood.

Ma was right. I cracked my head open!

I was obviously dying. Brains could literally be leaking out. My entire life flashed before my eyes— all ten glorious years of it. Ma rushed over, scooped me up, and after a solid round of "I told you so's," she pressed a towel to my head and carted me off to Hepburn Hospital.

The doctor stitched me up, and I apparently had a concussion because I remember almost none of it. What I do recall is waking up with a massive headache, a bandaged head, and a newfound respect for gravity. I spent the rest of the day lying down, contemplating my short-lived daredevil career.

Evel Knievel had nothing to worry about.

Jumping things wasn’t all we did, of course not. A bike was more than just transportation; it was a science lab, a musical instrument, and, on occasion, an instrument of bodily destruction. Many times, we boys would land on the crossbar in front of the seat, putting in jeopardy our ability to ever procreate.

There was the sound component. Every kid knew that the best way to transform your Schwinn into a Harley-esque beast was to clothespin a few playing cards to the frame, each one smacking the spokes like a tiny machine gun. The more cards, the better—until you ran out of good ones and had to sacrifice an Old Maid or the six of clubs.

And then, of course, wheelies. There was no more direct route to coolness—or a cracked skull—than the perfect wheelie. The goal was to hold it as long as possible, preferably while a crowd of neighborhood kids looked on in awe. Most attempts ended in an undignified collapse, a bent front tire, and a solid five minutes of pretending you weren’t in excruciating pain. Some kids were so good at it, they just did wheelies the whole time, making you wonder if they had an actual bike or a unicycle with an extra wheel.

Handlebar passengers were another test of skill—and friendship. If your buddy trusted you enough to hop on the front and dangle his feet precariously over the front wheel, he either had nerves of steel or a deeply flawed understanding of physics. A sudden stop meant both of you were going down, usually in slow motion, with a flailing attempt to regain balance before accepting your fate and bracing for impact.

We were also about innovation. Bikes back then came stock standard, but we made them better.

We bolted on all kinds of high-tech upgrades. Friction-powered lights—ingenious little devices that pressed against the wheel and only worked as long as you kept pedaling. Slow down, and you disappeared into the void. A speedometer and odometer, because knowing you were going an “official” 12 miles per hour was somehow thrilling. And turn signals—tiny blinking lights that could be seen from at least 15 feet away, which was about 14 feet short of being remotely useful.

Looking back, we didn’t just ride bikes. We engineered, experimented, crashed, survived, and repeated. And somehow, we lived to tell about it.