One of the prominent things in my memory of my youth is bicycles. They were a means of locomotion that leveraged your energy to the point of nearly flying! When I was very young, even running was so exciting… the wind in your face, the roaring in your ears, the ground rushing by as you sped along and the scenery disappearing behind you!
Then you got a tri-cycle, and things happened at a more accelerated pace but you were around older kids who had bicycles, and they seemed to have another degree of freedom that you lacked. Just the fact that they had to balance on two wheels made bicycles seem like some form of magic carpet, and the bicycle riders would look down on you as if you were some lesser life form for not being able to ride one… The allure of joining that club made the necessary pain of learning how to ride worth the cost.
I remember when I had finally sorta got to the point where I could ride a bike, but didn’t have my own yet. My oldest sister had a full size girl’s bicycle that I had finally mastered because I could ride the pedals up and down through their full travel, first one side then the other—the lack of a center bar allowed me to pump the pedals with my full weight and keep it moving forward! One day, I wanted to ride it and she wouldn’t let me.
She kept riding by me in the street taunting me as she passed by on the shells… so I got a stick, and as she went by, I tossed it into the spokes of the front wheel causing her to come to an abrupt stop in a spectacular dusty noisy crash! As she ran screaming bloody murder toward the house, I picked it up and pedaled off down the street. I would have to deal with the wrath and justice of Mom, but I was gonna get my few minutes of freedom and fun before the pain. After I recovered from the ass-whuppin I got for that, I would eventually cover many miles on several bicycles in Bayou Vista.
And when we moved to Patterson, it just got better. My parents knowing everyone in Patterson, had a false sense of security, I think. They allowed me to go pretty much anywhere, as long as they “knew” where I was. I also got to spend a lot more time with the guys I had grown up with at school; Don Guidry, Al Grotheer, Joey Adams, Jack Smith, Keith Gary, Chuck Toney… the list goes on and on! In the immediate area where we lived there was Glenn Jumonville, Teddy Paul, Billy Gober, Richard Smith, Ray Primeaux, and we all rode together at different times, depending on who was doing what that day. I could probably fill up a page with just names, and another book with just bicycle and motorcycle stories, but for now, I thought I would tell a story that has become near-legend in Patterson (at least amongst our generation)—about something that, as far as I know, only two other people have done in the history of Patterson on a bicycle. Only Chris Costa (R.I.P.), I, and Johnny Smoorenburg (in that order) were crazy enough to ride a bicycle down the high-slide in Morey Park!
When we were growing up there was not all this concern about kids getting injured while playing. Much of the playground equipment could be dangerous if abused. But if you broke an arm or leg while doing so, well, that was another reminder that life can be tough on you when you make mistakes in judgement!
The playset items in the parks were pretty common and the dangers were accepted. In Morey Park, there were two slides. Both were of the same construction and built to last a hundred years or survive a nuclear strike, whichever came first. The slide itself was a sorta smooth sheet of seamless stainless steel, bolted to a cast steel framework and braced by a couple of sturdy galvanized pipes cemented into the ground. They were as solid as a rock, and the only difference between the two was height. One was about six feet high at the top of the ladder, and the other was about ten feet at the top. Now, that doesn’t sound so high, but when you were up there looking down it could be pretty intimidating when you’re only 4 or 5 feet tall! By the time of this story, Chris Costa was already a legend for having ridden his bicycle down the high-slide, and though many of us may have considered it at one time or another, no one had replicated his feat—yet!
During the summer, we spent a lot of time at my good friend Joey Adams’ snowball stand. Bobby Adams had set it up for his sons, Joey and his brothers, next to Joey’s grandfather’s store, Rizzo’s. Rizzo’s was an upscale clothing store in the middle of town on Main Street (once US 90, now LA 182). There was still a fairly thriving downtown in that area. The bypassing of Patterson’s downtown by the new four-laned US 90 had begun a slow decline, but it was still busy back then. So the snowball stand was a magnet for a lot of us kids, and we made a bunch of great memories hanging around there.
One day while a group of us were hanging around, I decided I wanted a snowball, but I had used up my meager funds for the day already. When I asked for a rain-check ‘til the next day, Joey—being the astute businessman that he already had become—declined. I then began thinking of how I might barter something of value for the snowball, and I suddenly thought of something that would be irresistible to anyone with a sense of adventure!
“I’ll go down the high-slide on my bicycle for a large one!” I exclaimed.
All other conversation ceased, and everyone’s attention focused on ours, as Joey, after a second or two, exclaimed, “BULLSHIT!” –but a raucous response by everyone that amounted to ‘I gotta see THIS!’ encouraged Joey to agree to the terms.
So a group of us headed over to the park which was only about a half-block away on the other side of Main Street. After a brief reconnoiter of the area, a couple of people pulled 2 swings aside, as the exit path at the bottom of the slide pointed to the swings only 15-20 feet away. Then I began the process of getting my sister’s bike, which I happened to be on that day (a minor inconvenience—for me, anyway) to the top of the slide.
Holding onto the bike frame with one hand, I took a step up while holding onto the rung above me with the other. I then quickly grasped the next rung, and stepped up again, repeating ‘til I got to the top where I had to get on the small platform ahead of the bike, and then pull it up next to me. Then I had to sit on it, balancing it on the 2’x2’ platform, with the front tire already pointing down the slide and the back tire barely at the rear edge of the platform. I have to admit that at this point I was having second thoughts… and just as I wondered if I should be doing this, it was too late. I was on my way!
It was kinda like being in a car wreck—time slows down. I vividly remember being surprised when the front tire immediately dropped off the straight edge at the bottom. Then the back tire slammed down and bounced the back of the bike into the air, flying me through the swings with no way to slow down. Just as the back tire finally came down I slammed into the monkey bars, doing them no damage at all… and fortunately, besides a few bruises, none to me either! The forks of the bicycle were bent back a couple of inches, but me and Glen Jumonville heated them up later with a torch and pulled them back out. If it hadn’t been for the burnt paint, I woulda got away with it!
We all enjoyed a round of side-splitting laughter and re-telling the story from different vantage points while I ate my snowball—before I headed off to fix the forks, go home, and get chewed out for the charred paint.
I didn’t tell my parents the true story about how they got bent, but eventually everyone knew. It was just another one of those days in the life of a small town, where fun was where you found it!
To be continued; same life, different story…
© Dewayne P. Blanco, 2017