When I was a kid I wanted to be many things. I wanted to be a cowboy like John Wayne, ride high in the saddle, walk with a swagger, outdraw, and out fight any hombre that had a hankerin' to test me.  Then one day I realized “The Duke”, Marion Morrison, wasn’t a real cowboy, swaggering everywhere you go is slow and silly, and I was too mild-mannered and even- keeled to get riled to the point of fisticuffs.

That slew of realizations, and Susie, the ill-tempered Shetland pony my brother and I bought for $200, laid my cowboy dreams to rest.  The horse and the cowboy clothes were traded for an official Evel Knievel bicycle and an Evel Knievel jumpsuit that my mom sewed me, and I set out to be a stuntman. 

Being a stuntman seemed heroic, but jumping burning piles of leaves by launching your bike off of a shoddily constructed ramps is not as glamorous as it sounds, so I shifted my ambitions to becoming the shortstop for the New York Yankees. They never called, but I did enjoy playing a couple of seasons with the Sherwood Yanks in the Saskatoon Men’s Baseball League. You can almost see the Bronx from Saskatoon…almost. 

Remnants of all the things I wanted to be when I was a kid are still a part of my life.  I occasionally semi-swagger about in quasi-cowboy clothes when called upon to provide sports medicine coverage for a rodeo. Put on snug Wranglers and second-hand cowboy boots and see how you walk.

The Yankees?  They had their chance, and they opted to go with some hack named Jeter. I hear his career turned out okay, but his dreams of playing in Saskatoon never materialized. So it goes.

Bicycles have remained a part of my life. I don’t jump burning leaf piles anymore (though it’s not out of the question), but coasting “no hands” down a hill with my arms out wide and my eyes shut still makes me smile. I have fond memories of many of the bikes that have been a part of my life.

The Evel Knievel motorcycle replica bike that I had when I was 6-years old that carried me over many glorious jumps and equally glorious crashes. The western themed banana bike with ape-hanger handle bars that my 8-year old legs spurred for 30 miles in the Stanley St. Jude’s Bike-a-Thon. The blue and gold Coast King BMX bike with mag wheels, from the Kenmare Hardware Store, that was gratefully outfitted with boyhood saving padding on the top bar.

A few weeks ago, “Rosie” was added to the fleet of smile inducing bicycles I’ve had the pleasure of perching upon over the years. I’m generally not one to name inanimate objects, but I could imagine my Grandma Rose looking at the rosewood color of this bike and saying, “My, that’s a pretty color. You be careful on that.”

This ride is a full-suspension mountain bike that has had me laughing out loud while rolling down tree-lined switchback trails much faster than a 50-year old with a history of concussions probably should, so I need the constant reminder of “You be careful” along for the ride.

Bicycles aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but for me they’ve always represented freedom of sorts. Freedom to explore, freedom to challenge yourself, freedom to switch off your brain and simply peddle, or slowly coast with your thoughts. Freedom to just be.

Such freedoms can be found in many flavors and forms. Enjoy your tea time.