When’s the last time you changed a bicycle tire? For me it has to be when the kids were kids, but the way they outgrew them probably not. They’re over 40 now either way. It is more likely when I was a kid, which is a bit longer than that. I did it though. I changed one today and it was as much of a pain in the ass as I remember, but now I have the right tools. That makes a difference. I did it then too, but with a couple of screwdrivers from my Mom’s tool drawer. Being careful not to puncture the tube, I carefully wrestled it off and on and then I had to walk it all the way down to the gas station to get air. It wasn’t until then that you really knew if you screwdrivered it up or what. This time I used my 18v battery powered inflator and plastic pry tools. The kind you use to remove car dashboards and stuff. They were perfect.
I rode a lot in those days. From the moment I got home from school until dark we were pretty much out on our bikes. At one point I joined a “gang” lol we were adorable. I must have been nine or so. We hung out on the corner by the A&P food store fighting over who got to sit on the big blue mailbox. It was like king of the hill over there. We had our bikes and the slightest thing would set us all off in one direction or the other. Smokin’ shitty weed and boostin’ shit out of parked cars we thought we were so tough.
We called ourselves “The Ratts.” You had to, as part of the initiation, “Cut” (read ‘lightly scratch’) RATTS on your arm with a razor blade. You also had to rip the arms off your jean jacket and write RATTS on the back with a sharpie. Once accepted and a full member it was sort of a thing to get a six-foot sissy bar for the back of your stingray.  Brylcreem pompadours were abundant but optional. Mine was spectacular. As I said, we were adorable; it was like Rockwell painting of neighborhood scallywag kids.
Looking back, we were, for the most part, an angry bunch - poor, latchkey kids of single Moms. Two-job Moms struggling to survive while their good-for-nothing kid is ripping the arms off his band-new jean jacket. This, however, gave us the freedom to roam. From three until dark we were on the corner or getting into trouble. We never really did any harm that caused anyone much pain but we were assholes and kind of proud of it. Cute lil rebels, none of us really fit in at school and this was our turf and we felt safe in numbers and at home. There was trouble in paradise, however, when the “Sewer Rats” showed up.
One of the things we did was a group trip - wait I’m sorry, I mean we took a “gang ride” - to Mr. Tops. Mr. Tops (this blows my mind) was two towns up the Boston Post Road. Two towns, how many miles is that? We rode without even thinking about distance. I wonder how many miles total I put on that thing. Anyway, Thursday evening was the thing. The reason we picked Thursday was because The Mongols, a local motor cycle group, also did a gang ride to Mr. Tops on Thursdays.
They were not adorable. They were big and hairy scary. They would pass us on the road at some point revving their big engines in their leather jackets with the sleeves ripped off. Big sissy bars and ape hanger handle bars I think they got a kick out of it. Our stingrays all tricked out to look like that. We would finally show up at Mr. Tops and they’d be there in a row all backed in. They’d be at the tables and would holler at us and want to see our bikes. They’d let us sit with 'em and eat their fries, sit on their bikes, maybe wear a real Mongol jacket. Looking back, I bet some of those old graybeard guys were dads and those hot chicks in leather pants were probably moms and remember… we were adorable.
Lots of great memories there: the initiation ride on suicide hill, “rumbles” with the “Sewer Rats,” riding around towns up and down the BPR.

Then came the game changer. Older and with a paper route, I got a brand-new Stingray Gray Ghost with the 5-speed stick shift on the tube. It was so cool. The holy grail of stingray bikes and the right one, like mine, would be worth a cool $4k or so right now. I have no idea what happened to mine. I guarantee you I did not get 4k for it. I thought about trading it for an electric guitar at some point but I think my brother probably inherited it when I got locked up. The big T-handle, the brand new seat, actual grease on the chain, this was a bike. It was so cool. I had a 6-foot sissy bar. It was just stupid tall with a Ratt tail tied on top. More than a backrest, a kid could stand on the back of my seat and hang on to it. There were rides to rumbles and Mr. Tops where we had 3 or 4 kids on a bike. You could have one standing up, one on the handlebars with some idiot in the middle peddling his ass off. With the sissy bar you could get two kids in the middle, one pedaling backwards one forward and we’d ride that way for miles. It was a cartoon really. We were adorable.
After that I had a paper route and rode my bike south every day down along the harbor past the docks, the yacht club, the clam bar where I spent all my earnings. I loved that ride. On payday I’d ride down there broke and ride back rich, stopping at the clam bar for a big bowl of chowder and a crowd of steamed clams. I think they might still be there. Then, of course, ride home practically broke again.
After that I was a delivery kid for a local pharmacy for a while, riding my bike in the snow and rain to give sweet old ladies their meds in exchange for tips and oatmeal cookies. A ten-speed made more sense and that was that. Those days ended at some point and I got my permit and started driving Mom’s car. There’s another story or two there, the blizzard, the telephone pole, totaling the Tempest...sigh, sweet memories. All in all, my bicycle years were quite memorable.
So I changed my tire today and I have one more to go. I’ll need to grease the chain and go through the gears on my 15-speed mountain bike, a little tune up. Maybe I’ll hit the thrift store for an old jean jacket. Riding around LA will be different but it’ll be good for me. It isn’t a Gray Ghost but you can’t go home again. Right?