Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here) and orderable at all bookshops.

*

In late spring 1967, so late it was almost summer, the Beatles released “When I’m Sixty-Four” written by Paul McCartney when he was only 16.

At the time, for I had turned seven less than a week before, the song was far beyond my youthful comprehension. In truth, even in high school and college, and a good while beyond, I had a hard time imagining being 64…

…yet seemingly in a wink and a blink, come Memorial Day next week, the lyrics “many years from now” will have arrived for me and McCartney’s words will sing true as I reach this musical milestone age.

While I’m not yet “losing my hair” (thank you, Grandpa Ansel, for your thick-thatched genes) I do have three grandchildren (not “Vera, Chuck and Dave” but Maya, Auden and Amara) to bounce on my knee.

For some reason, perhaps because it was one of my favorite things to do when “When I’m Sixty-Four” first hit the airwaves, I have been reminiscing about riding bikes. In the 1960s, we kids could—and did!—hop on our stingrays in the morning and explore like Lewis and Clark all day long so long as we were home by dinner call.

Oh, the places we’d go! The fun we had! The things we’d do! We’d ride to our friends’ homes, ride to the five-and-dime, ride to the playground and swimming pool and tennis courts. We’d build wooden ramps to soar off, and have contests pedaling as fast as humanly possible before jamming on the coaster brakes with all our weight and try to not wipeout as the back tire locked and fishtailed on the pavement and whoever left the longest black comet tail won, all without bike helmets.

Sometimes, oftentimes, we also left knee and palm flesh behind on the pavement resulting in impassioned pleas for our moms not to spray Bactine—OUCH!!!—on the road rash for that hurt worse than the crashes.

The fall I most vividly remember happened the very first time I rode a two-wheeler solo. I had just turned four and to put an end to my pleading and begging and whining my two older brothers took turns teaching me to ride by running alongside holding the seat of one of their outgrown bikes to maintain my balance.

No doubt, dear reader, you know what happened next for you surely had the same experience when you learned to ride: the magical moment came when one of my brothers let go of the seat while I was concentrating wholly and simultaneously on pedaling and steering and controlling the wobbling and remaining upright—and without knowing it I was suddenly a human space capsule that had shed its booster rocket and was now soaring without assistance.

Down the sidewalk I rolled and, unable to maneuver a U-turn, I continued to pedal all the way around the block and when I came full circle my brothers were both gone…

…for Mom had called us inside for dinner.

Unfortunately, they had neglected to give me instructions for how to use the coaster brakes to stop. Moreover, the hand-me-down bike was a bit too tall for me to touch my feet to the ground, so around the block I went a second time, and a third, and still no one was waiting to help me stop without falling.

Falling, of course, is how I eventually stopped. I came inside in tears and in need of Bactine—and in a state of glorious happiness.

When I’m Sixty-Four next week I shall celebrate with a bike ride.

* * *

Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

*

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn.