My life on two wheels, part two
By Stanley Trulock
Glenwood Springs
By the summer of 1958, I had outgrown my 20-incher, so my grandma and grandpa took me to Montgomery Wards and let me pick out a new, “big” bike. It was a red and white 26-inch. They put in the trunk of their 1958 Ford and took it home.
When we unloaded it, I got on and rode off. The blocks didn’t seem as long as they had been, and I was flying. After dinner, I’d ride till dark and then get up early the next morning and go all day, only stopping for Kool Aid and a sandwich for lunch. I was home for dinner because, “You will be home for dinner,” then off until dark. I needed to get a headlight.
Summertime was baseball time, and to say that my dad was a fan would be a gross understatement, hence my brother’s name, Ted Williams Trulock. He wanted to name him Stan Musial Trulock, but when he married my mom she came with a Stan.
Anyway, every summer my dad would sign me up for little league and I would get on my bike with my baseball glove and go to try outs/practice. I was never very interested, so I wasn’t good enough to make the teams with the nifty uniforms, matching caps and real baseball shoes. I was always in the “farm league.” We got t-shirts that said “Little League Farm,” so everybody could tell that we weren’t the cream of the crop. We were given solid color caps so we could tell our teammates from the other teams. My dad told me to keep an eye on the ball, so I would watch it as it hit me in the face.
Oh yeah, this story’s about me and my bike. So, after a few evenings of riding to little league and playing a limited amount, I figured out that I could put on my t-shirt and cap, grab my glove, hop on my bike and ride right past the ball field to the new and different neighborhoods to check them out.
I learned new shortcuts, and which houses didn’t have fences so I could ride through their yards when they weren’t home. I knew that I had to be home before dark, and everything was good until dad decided to come and see how I was doing.
When I got home that night, he asked how I did and I made up a story about getting a hit or something. He pointed out that the coach had said that I very rarely showed up, and when I did I wasn’t that interested. I said that it was true and that I really would rather ride my bike. That was the night that my baseball career ended.
My dad told me to just tell mom and him where I was going, and he would save the money that it cost for little league. I wouldn’t have to drag my glove around with me. I didn’t tell him that I usually ditched it by the Presbyterian Church, because I figured nobody would steal it from there. After that, I would tell them the general direction I was headed.
I would ride over to Mayfair and around the Country Club, as they had paved streets unlike the tar and gravel in my part of town. Our streets were rough enough that my wheels would get out of tune and the tires would rub the fender. Being a kid, and not knowing anything, rather than trying to tighten the spokes to straighten the rim, I just took the fenders off. That made it look cool. I also flipped the handlebars upside down so it would look like an “English Racer.”
The summer of 1964, I got a job as a caddy at the Country Club. It was fairly easy and paid real good. Good enough that half way through the summer, I had saved money to buy a new bike. I had been reading “Boys Life” and “Popular Mechanics” magazines about the new Schwinn Varsity 10-speed.
Mom and dad took me to Durst Cycles in Urbana and I picked out a candy blue one that was beautiful. It came with no fenders and dropped handlebars with white tape instead of grips like a “real” English Racer and skinny 27 inch tires that were rock hard, unlike the fat squishy tires on wobbly wheels. If I remember correctly, it was $72 (in 1964 dollars). I’m sure I paid in one and five dollar bills, as that was how I was paid at the caddy shack (taxes, what taxes?). I then rode home to 2103 Southwood Drive. That was the farthest I had ridden through town ever.
I remember reading about a guy who drafted a semi truck and went 70mph on his Schwinn, and when I first started pedaling mine, I was pretty sure I could do the same.
I continue to have bicycle adventures to this day and this could turn into a “never ending story.” However, 1964 was also the year that I rode a motorcycle for the first time, and just like when my dad let go of my bicycle seat, I got a “feeling” I thought was wonderfully fun. Little did I know that would actually shape the rest of my life.
Stanley Trulock is 73, and still rides his bike. “Every time I do, at some point in the ride, I get the same ‘free’ feeling that I felt when I was 5,” he said. Trulock has been a professional motorcycle mechanic since 1971, “so the motorcycle ride I took in 1964 did shape my life,” he added.