The Bike with Flowers on the Seat

It was a banana seat bike that belonged to my sister in the 70's, and I loved it.  It was blue with big U-shaped handlebars that curved up to meet you sitting high on the flower-patterned seat.  That seat was wide, padded, and curved down at the edges to provide comfort and a feeling of stability.  I had my own bike that was more easily identified as a boy's bike but in almost all ways I preferred the bike with flowers on its seat.  It was lighter and fit my skinny frame like something custom designed.  I could pop wheelies effortlessly and fly over ramps with good air, landing expertly on the back wheel and then smoothly dropping the front tire to the ground like a fighter pilot, usually.  On the back of the seat was a looped bar that passengers could grasp behind their back when getting a ride.  This was the bike I kept close to home, not venturing out more than a block or two.

My sister had gotten a new green bike with a beige sparkly banana seat and three speed shifter with large knob on the end that protruded upward from the main bar connecting the seat to the handlebars.  It was flashy but clunky, not like the beat up flower bike that handled like a sleek Arabian stallion.  The reason I did not ride this bike far and wide as I did my other bike had to do with an incident that happened the summer between first and second grade.  I was riding that bike several blocks from home and I saw a boy who was in my class, Chris Mumaw.  He was short, a little on the chubby side, and had an infectious laugh.  When we started second grade the teacher had us all share what we did for the summer.  When it was Chris's turn he broke out into a huge grin as he reported seeing me riding on a bike with flowers on the seat.

The risks of being seen riding such a bike eventually became too great and riding it stopped altogether when I got a dirt bike for Christmas that was beyond my wildest dreams.  This bike was all black, had large shiny chrome shocks in the back and smaller shocks on the front fork with a thin rubber covering to keep dirt and mud out of them.  The seat had a motorcycle styling to it and hand grips to match.  I was well aware that no one else in our town of 2000 souls owned such a thing.  For years it was my prized possession, but in the back of my mind I knew it was too heavy, that it was almost impossible to pop a wheelie on it, that you had to slouch forward to grasp the handlebars and pump too hard to really get it going.  I imagine my younger sister who came along six years after me eventually acquired the bike with flowers on the seat.  Only now, in my forties, do I truly appreciate it for what it was and can pay due homage.



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