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The Bikes I Used To Love





And Still Do



1977 JC Penney Wildfire


In the fall of 1977, I was approaching my 6th birthday and badly wanted a new bike. During the summer I'd learned to ride my dad's childhood bicycle, but it was a 1950s rust bucket. Its style was completely outdated, in favor of the newest trend: Bicycle Motocross (BMX).


Blame the Europeans. In the 1960s, they exported not only the Beatles, but also the sport of motocross. This style of motorcycle racing caught on quickly in the United States, with its dirt tracks filled with jumps. Purpose-built motorcycles arrived for the masses and the Europeans taught the Americans how to moto.


The bicycle crowd took note and developed their own motocross tracks. As with motorcycles, the equipment evolved from converted street rides to specialized bikes made for clearing jumps.


When I started first grade, the Southern California BMX scene was fully developed, and its influence had spread to the Midwest. By the time I could read, the Stockland Grade School library had taken possession of a BMX book, fresh off the press with photos of SoCal kids racing the most awesome bicycles I'd ever seen. All the boys wanted to check out that book, and they all wanted to own a BMX bike. The cool kids at Stockland began riding Schwinn BMX bikes to school. I knew my parents couldn't afford one of those, but I was pretty sure they'd get me something to ride for my upcoming birthday.


Sometime in late September or early October, my family took a shopping trip to Lafayette, Indiana. At the mall was a JCPenney store, where my dad and I perused the bicycle aisle. One bike caught my eye: Wildfire. I mean, seriously...look at this picture from the 1977 Christmas catalog, and tell me you wouldn't have wanted one:





To this day, my favorite colors are still red and black. And look at those flames! A number plate with my upcoming age! The fake gas tank! This was beyond cool, and the store had one in the display rack, just begging to be ridden through the aisles. My dad pulled it out of the rack and set me on the seat. I was a tiny person and this bike was too big, but neither of us cared. With a healthy shove, my dad sent me down the aisle. I could hear the hum of knobby tires on linoleum, just before I crashed into an end cap stacked with motor oil.


After that brief ride, my dad and I met up with my mom, who forced me into a department store (probably Sears) to try on clothes. Afterwards, we regrouped with my dad, my brother and two sisters and left the mall. Our Ford Country Squire station wagon (painted puke-green with a 460 cubic inch V8, because my dad liked acceleration and gas was cheap) was waiting in the parking lot. As we approached, my dad told me to sit in the "wayback", that space in the rear my younger sister typically occupied. I objected, strongly. Lynda sits there, I pleaded. My place was the back seat, on the "hump". I may not have had the seniority for a left or right spot in the back seat, but the wayback? Totally unacceptable.


My whining was ignored. My dad marched to the back of the wagon, swung open the wide door and my jaw dropped.


There was Wildfire, an early birthday gift.


"Still want the back seat?" he asked with a smirk.


I leaped into the wayback. I was in love.


In the coming years, I would learn to wheelie, set up ramps and dare Lynda to lie down in front of them, and generally ride the wheels off Wildfire. This was a 6-year-old's version of freedom, on a farm in Illinois with no other people within a mile from any direction.


Best birthday ever.





1981 Sears Trail Bike



After flogging Widlfire for several years, my parents decided it was time for a full-size bicycle. My older brother and sister had received skinny-tired 10-speed leisure bikes when they outgrew their first bikes. On my 10th birthday I got a 10-speed too, but this one had fat tires and a BMX-style front fork.





The term "mountain bike" hadn't yet been invented, but the bikes had arrived. Murray came out with their Baja mountain bike in the early 1980s, which was basically a BMX frame enlarged to fit 26" fat tires. I received the Sears knock-off version of the Baja. It had thumb shifters (non-indexing) and foam handlebar grips.


By today's standards, this was a seriously overweight mountain bike. With its steel frame, the 1981 Sears Christmas catalog listed the bike's shipping weight as 52 pounds. But it rode smooth as glass, compared to the road-style 10-speeds which had dominated up to that point.


As with Wildfire, I rode the wheels off the mountain bike. It didn't jump quite as well as my BMX bike, but that didn't keep me from trying. It was a great bicycle.



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