PLEASURES OF LIFE

It was that coming-of-age summer. My companions and I had escaped the prying eyes of our parents. Our interests turned from baseball cards to rock ’n’ roll.

Gary Evans lived a few doors down from me. He was several years older, so we didn’t hang out, but he had two things that piqued my interest that summer. First was his stunningly attractive sister, Amanda. She was every boy’s crush. Even the most courageous among us knew she was out of their league. Still, that didn’t stop us from hanging around the Dairy Queen where she worked part-time. She always gave us that beguiling smile that said she knew we weren’t there just for the chocolate-dipped cones.

The other item of interest was his 1968 Schwinn Orange Krate. The Orange Krate and its two siblings, the Lemon Peeler and Apple Krate, were to bicycles what muscle cars were to automobiles. The Krates were cool. They had a 5-speed stick shift; spring suspension front fork with a drum brake; longhorn handlebars and a banana seat with shock absorber suspension. Mania on two wheels.

For weeks I slow-walked by Gary’s house, admiring the bicycle he had abandoned after he moved on to automobiles. It was now or never. Could I strike a deal with Gary and make the Krate mine? I gathered my courage and $35 in lawnmowing money and negotiated my way to being the bike’s new owner. In an instant I became relevant. The guys were jealous. The girls were impressed. The stuff that dreams were made of came to pass.

For five weeks that summer, the Krate and I paraded through the neighborhood. We were inseparable. We got stares of admiration from the kids. The girls took turns riding it around the block. Every day was a breath of fresh air. That is, until the day everything fell to pieces on a hot, muggy August afternoon.

The guys and I got together for a swim at a local park. I left the Krate securely chained to a light pole. When I came back a couple of hours later, I went numb and all wobbly in the knees. The Krate was gone. All that was left was a broken lock lying on the ground. My best friend, Don, and I searched the park for hours. Nothing. Not even a ransom note.

At dinner that night, I broke the news to my dad. Ever the stoic, he looked at me and said, “Son, sometimes life throws you a curve. And all you can do is move on.”

His words didn’t help. I continued stabbing at the mashed potatoes. As we left the table, he put his arm around my shoulder and whispered, “Next time get a bigger lock.”

There would be other crushes in life. But there would never be another Orange Krate. Today, the Krate is a collector’s item. Some owners asking as much as $10,000 on eBay. Quite a nice investment had I been able to keep it. Still, I wouldn’t give up the great memories $35 bought me long ago — or my father’s advice.