Farewell, Old Friend

After 37 years, I finally let go of my beloved BMX

Today was bittersweet. Today, I bid farewell to my beloved 1987 GT Dyno Detour, my favorite birthday present ever.

After thirty-seven years or so, it was time. It had been hanging on the back wall of my garage forever, a sad, dusty memento of some of the fondest years of my life. During the pandemic, I thought about restoring it to its original glory. Then I started researching parts on eBay and realized it was either I restore the bike or my kids get to go to college.

I have to be honest, it was a tough decision.

Just about an hour ago, I handed my Dyno to its new owner, who had driven almost three hours from New York State to purchase it. Luckily, he plans to restore it himself and promised to send me pictures of his progress along the way.

The following is an excerpt from my ebook/audiobook, Hit The Wall, Silver!: And other stories from an unremarkable yet magical childhood, in which I write about my beloved Dyno, as well as other bikes of my life. Enjoy!

[From the chapter: “Wheelin’ Around”]

By far most of my wheeled adventures took place on my bike, which over time evolved in size but was always of your basic BMX variety. In my neighborhood, your bike wasn’t just a conveyance, it was an extension of yourself. It was a status symbol that represented your position in the hierarchy of neighborhood society.

My first bicycle was a blue Raleigh Rampar—a humble yet rugged two-wheeler with knobby black tires and shiny gold handlebars. It was a solid bike that lasted through many a violent wreck. The bike finally had its undoing one day when I failed to clear the fabled dirt jump on the old Center Lane trails. The handlebars stripped and the frame hopelessly bent, my beloved Rampar was finally put out to pasture.

For a while after that, I was forced to share Nicole’s bicycle—a pink Schwinn Stingray with a banana seat and a flower-covered basket on the handlebars. It nearly ruined my reputation.

When my next birthday finally rolled around, I begged my parents to buy me a Schwinn Predator, which at the time was the coolest, most sought-after dirt bike on the grade-school circuit. Unfortunately, the Predator came with a lofty price tag, so they got me a Thrasher instead. (Note: Just two years later, my little sister got a pink Predator for her 9th birthday. Go figure.) The Thrasher was no Predator, but it was a decent bike, nonetheless, with a brilliant chrome frame, red racing grips, a speedometer, and a racing shield on the front, prominently displaying the number 10 for my age.

In time I became one with my Thrasher. I won many a neighborhood race on that silver beauty. I was always out cruising the neighborhood, practicing wheelies and bunny hops, all the while listening to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration” over and over again on my Walkman.

My favorite bike by far was my beloved black GT Dyno, which I got for my 13th birthday. My father took me down to Snitger’s Bicycle Store to pick something out, thinking I’d go for a 10-speed or a mountain bike. You know, something a little more grown-up. But then I saw it: a sleek black beauty with solid plastic spokes, white handle grips, hand brakes, and rear axle pegs. It was love at first sight, and I knew it would make me the envy of every other kid in my neighborhood.

The rear axle pegs were my favorite feature, and no other kid I knew had them. They were supposed to be for doing tricks, but I mainly just used them to give my friends rides around the neighborhood. One time my little sister got on the back and asked me to take her over to her friend Jenny’s house. We were cruising along at a good clip as we approached the house, but before I could bring the bike to a stop, Amber for some reason decided to just jump off. First I heard a thud, then the distinct sound of flesh scraping across tarred gravel. And then came the deafening screams as Amber turned and hobbled home, leaving a trail of blood in her wake.

The Dyno brought me new-found fame and attention. Whenever I’d ride up the street to see my friends, they’d all turn and stop talking as they saw me coming. Then, as I pulled up alongside them, they’d look down at their own bikes, clearly disappointed.

“Can I try your bike,” one of them would say.

“Maybe later,” I’d answer. “I just washed it and I don’t want it to get all dirty. Plus, I have the seat and handlebars set specifically for my height. You might lose control and wreck or something.”

I rarely let anyone ride my Dyno. Heck, I rarely ever got off of it myself. It was as if I was some strange Centaur-like creature, only with two rubber tires in place of hooves. Years later, when I left for college, I knew it was time to part ways with my beloved Dyno, so I gave it to my younger cousins, where I knew it would have a good home. Eventually, I replaced it with a more age-appropriate mountain bike, but it just wasn’t the same.

I guess it’s true what they say: You never forget your first love.

[Like what you just read? Buy the ebook!]