Beto Days

Western Flyer

There used to be a store in my home town called Western Auto. This place sold everything from auto parts to home appliances. But most importantly they sold a brand of bikes called Western Flyers. Not sure if they were all Western Flyers or if that was the name of one model but we called all their bikes Western Flyers and my family bought two of them. My dad purchased his bike first and several years later my parents would purchase me a bike as well.

My dad chose a gray ten-speed with black grips wrapped around chrome handle bars. When he got the bike home the first thing he did was loosen the handle bars and move them upward so he wasn't leaning forward while riding. He preferred sitting with his arms extended and his head held up high.

After adjusting the handlebars, he reached into his car and pulled out a racquet ball he used to play handball with at the park. He slid it into the spokes near the outer edge of the wheel and slid the ball down towards the center. As it moved closer to the center the ball was firmly squeezed into place and would readily be available whenever it was time to play a game of handball or "bola", as he called it.

My father spent most of the day riding his bike in the center of our apartment complex. The complex housed a row of carports towards the back and to each side there were apartment buildings housing 4 units each. The 3 structures formed a U shape which outlined a large blacktop area. This area would be my fathers' stage for the day. I sat and watched as he rode in circles avoiding children playing and the cars driving in and out. He began pedaling slowly, riding in huge circles in one direction then the other. He would pick up speed as he pedaled faster and faster after each rotation. Once bored with the circles he switched it up to figure eights and then quick pass-byes from one side of the blacktop to the other. A few times he even tried to lift the front tire off the ground and ride a wheelie for a while; he did alright.

For his finale he stepped over to one side of the bike and stood on one pedal as the bike continued to roll. He took this opportunity to catch his breath and to look over the bike while all its parts were in motion. He peeked at the front and rear wheels and everything in between as if he were completing a visual safety inspection. He even turned his head to the side so one ear pointed down towards the bike making sure everything sounded good. My dad really enjoyed that first ride. He had the excitement of a young kid riding his first new bike. I never asked but that may have been the first new bike my father ever had.

I was impressed with the way the bike moved and excited to watch my dad ride it as most young boys would be. So, when he stopped the bike in front of me and asked me "si queria un riate" I jumped right up and starting climbing on. He quickly slowed my roll, telling me to slow down and relax. "Calmate!' he said.

I first had to listen to the rules. I had to check my pants to see if any rivets or zippers could scratch the frame. I was told to tuck in any loose clothing, check that my shoelaces were tied and most importantly I needed to remember to keep my feet up and away from the spokes. After my brief orientation I was sat on the frame with both legs to one side as I held on to the center of the handlebars leaving room for my dad to hold on and steer. He kicked away with his leg and began pedaling. We were on the move, the wind blowing my hair back and my dad constantly shouting, "levante los pies". Reminding me to lift my legs when my feet got too close to the front wheel.

My father could ride really good with me on there and I was a great passenger. I didn't grip the bars too tight so the steering wasn't affected and I was getting better at holding my legs up and away from the spokes for longer periods of time. The longer I was able to hold my legs out the longer we would ride. I eventually got so good that my father had an idea to incorporate a small ice chest on one of our rides.

That day we would ride to a nearby park to play handball. The park was close to our apartments on the other side of a junior high school. There was a dirt path that could be used to cross over to the avenue which would place us just a few blocks from the park but we never used that path when going on our rides to avoid damaging the thin wheels that carried the 10 speed. Instead my dad would leave our complex and head north on Forest Street passing a row of other apartments on the left and an empty field on the other side of us. He would take a right on Leavesley Avenue passing a 7-11 and a Rotten Robbie gas station before taking another right on Murray Avenue. Riding down Murray we would pass a mobile home park and the junior high school on our right with our apartments visible through the grass fields of the school. To our left was a burger king, courts of homes and finally a large apartment complex known as the Gilroy Apartments. Those apartments ended where the park began.

We rode this path many times and it wasn't a problem for me to ride that distance and hold my legs up and away from the wheels. However, things would be different with an ice chest on my lap. I recall struggling on the way to the park but with my father's encouragement, shouting out "levante los pies" we were able to reach our destination without incident.

After spending time at the park, it was time to return home. We were both tired by then. My dad from playing handball and me from chasing the balls that he hit over the handball court. When I got placed on the frame of the western flyer with the ice chest on my lap I felt confident. The ice chest was much lighter since half the beers had been emptied by my father during breaks in his games and I had drank the one soda that was placed in there for me. What I wasn't ready for though, was the shifting in weight caused by the now watery ice. When my dad would turn or go up and down the curbs I could feel the beer cans and icy water sway from one side to the other. I had to concentrate all my energy into my arms to keep from dropping the ice chest or losing my grip of the handlebars. As I did that, I could feel my legs slowly begin to lower as we rode towards the junior high school. The lower my legs went the lower the ice chest would shift making it more difficult to hold with my arms. I didn't want to complain so I kept telling myself I had it under control. It wasn't until the bike rolled off a sidewalk and onto a bumpy area of the street that my legs gave out. I tried quickly to lift them back up but the ice chest was forcing my legs down and causing my feet to be pushed into the spokes of the wheel. The last thing I remember before we flipped over the handle bars was my dad shouting, "levante los pies!"

We hit the street rolling and the bike went flying as we were showered with ice water and beer cans. We were both ok and the bike suffered no real damages. We saved all the beers and placed them back into the ice chest. We could see our apartments through the junior high school as we took inventory and gathered ourselves. We ended up walking the bike back home using the dirt path for the first time. The blame for this incident would fall solely on me. All I had to do was keep my feet up and out of the spokes.

The second bike we bought from Wester Auto was a yellow and green mountain bike for me which actually had the name Wester Flyer on the frame. The only thing I remember about that bike was having to walk it back home every time I took it out for a ride. It was a piece of junk that always broke down on me and whenever I had to walk it home, I would think of the time me and my dad flipped the 10 speed.