In 1983, every 11- year old wanted a BMX racer bike. Race down streets. Go to the Pits. Speed down dirt pathways and up and over hills. Jump over ditches and tiny ravines. Pop wheelies and skid stops.
Intro: 1983 Silver Racing Huffy. Cool metallic silver frame. Bright fire engine red pads on the cross bar and handle bars. Mag wheels and trick sticks. Dirt tires. She was fast. She desired air jumps.
She was a Christmas present. The sharpest BMX-like bike I’d ever seen. I rode her to school, rode her to Craig’s house, rode her to the Tastee Freeze, to Daylight Donuts, rode her to Pits and rode her to Chewning’s.
This was the first time I had something that other kids actually envied me about. They begged to ride it. They begged to go down Dead Man’s Drop (at the Pits). I was selfish and mostly said no. I did let a few ride the Huffy behind the Park Twin Theater.
Peddling her as fast as I could. Zooming through the ALCO parking lot. Whipping in and out of parked cars. Hopping it up and over the curb to race down the huge side walk in front of the Plains Park Shopping Center.
Then the dark day happened. I was riding her home after an afternoon at Craig’s house. I remember the day as though it happened yesterday. I remember cruising down the fire lane of Roswell High School. I rode over Washington Ave and into the long parking lot of Columbia Manor Apartments. I turned the handle bars and round the end of the building and up onto the sidewalk. Zoomed into the patio of our apartment and popped the kickstand. I went into the sliding glass door and sat on the couch where my mother was watching TV. Probably some old western on KCAL. Not a few minutes from the time I sat down, the phone rang. It was a neighbor from 3 apartments down stating he saw a couple men walking my bike to their car. My mother told me to check my bike. I whipped the curtains back and she was gone. My Silver Racing Huffy was gone. We called the police. The good neighbor told them the make of car, license plate and description of the men. The police caught them. But there was no Silver Racing Huffy. She was gone. We searched the open fields and looked to see if they dumped it somewhere. Nothing. Never saw her again. One of the saddest days of my life. I still get pissed to this day. I dream of taking my Rawlings bat to the punks head.
I got a new bike right after that. My mother didn’t have to pay the entire amount. When friends and family heard how it got stolen right off our patio, they helped her buy me a another bike. But it wasn’t no Silver Racing Huffy. Her replacement was a Black and Gold Street Huffy. The mag wheels gone; replaced by spokes. She had a black frame and antique gold accents. I remember calling her the Wasp as her tires made this cool buzzing sound as I rode down side walks. It was just the tread on the tire but I imagined that she was a combat ready and mean like a wasp.
I loved the new bike too but I still would give a week of Sundays for the chance to had a childhood with only my Silver Racing Huffy…
