The story I’ve related most about a bicycle took place when I was ten. The story is awful, but the bicycle was a quite beautiful, metallic-red, three-speed with a click grip-shifter that one rotated with one’s wrist. My father had traded a fading black ’49 Dodge for it. That was the most unique car we owned, I think, and is a story in itself. But the bike was a beaut with chrome fenders, a kick-stand, and add-ons my Dad thought were snazzy — red, green and blue plastic tassels that hung from the grips, and a high, looping sissy bar that was connected to a purple, metal flake banana seat. The add-ons were popular on bikes at the time, and they transformed what had been a relatively lovely, but otherwise sedate commuter bike. I thought it was terrific.

Although it was “given” to me, my father made a point of telling me that “no one else” was to ride it. But as I say, the bike was a beaut. And a good friend of mine liked it and asked if he could ride it. I said “sure”. Unfortunately my friend took a turn too hard — we were in the dirt parking lot behind the old Saskatoon arena — and he wiped out, bending the front wheel, which would no longer rotate all the way through the front fork. Of course my father’s words rang in my ears.

For whatever reason, the course of action decided was for my friend and I to walk back to my place and tell my father what had happened. My sister, who was with us at the time, said she’d drag the bike home. With that, my friend and I walked down 19th Street on a lovely June evening, made our way down the alley to our place and found my father in his garage. He’d been working in the backyard underneath a car for most of the afternoon and was dressed in dark, dusty, greasy clothes, as well as a black beret he’d taken to wearing to keep dirt out of his hair.

When I told him what had happened, he said “Didn’t I tell you to not let anyone ride your bicycle?” This made my friend a bit anxious and he said “I’ll pay for it to get fixed, Mr. Stevenson.” I’m not sure if my father said anything to Mel, my friend, but I remember my father asking where the bike was now. I said Colleen was dragging it home down 19th Street. He grabbed a sledgehammer and said “Let’s go.”

At the end of the alley we could see my sister coming down the street. “Bring that over here,” my father said to her. She dragged the bike over to us with the front wheel vertical. He told her to put it down and then he asked me: “Didn’t I tell you to not let anyone ride your bike?”

I don’t remember what I said, if anything. I could see my mother had joined us and was standing nearby. I don’t know if she said anything. He began pounding the bicycle with the sledgehammer, great overhead strokes — hitting the frame, handlebars, wheels and spokes — crumpling the thing. I think my mother may have said something then. I remember that a man in a car who’d stopped at the stop sign was looking at the scene.

It was an awful end to a beautiful bike.