1975 Schwinn Sting Ray Deluxe
Sparkling metallic blue, the first of a hand - me - down bicycle from brother Matt in 1982. Thanks, Matt!
The blue Stingray was a model year older than my yellow Junior Stingray, but it was bigger and had a knobby rear tire. Plus, it was a deluxe. Now, that was hot.
One day when we were ten and eight years old, Matt and I went for a long ride on our Stingrays. While our parents thought we were at the neighborhood swimming pool, we rode from our home in Kirkwood to purchase forbidden fireworks in Valley Park, MO. The route followed busy roads, State Highways and meandered through industrial parks. Cement trucks and 18 wheelers were just a few feet away throughout the trip. Of course we weren't wearing helmets, but no one wore them back then.
After what seemed like eternity, we could finally see the fireworks tents. But first we had to cross this old green suspension bridge that spanned the Meramec river. It was a terrible sight for an eight year old. Even worse, the sidewalk was missing several wooden planks, which elicited a rare and powerful F bomb from Matt.
I could see plainly that Matt wasn't deterred as he looked at me. My eyes shifted to that gaping hole. I felt nauseous and began to cry. Matt encouraged me to turn back and start riding home by myself. I wiped my tears and stood my ground. I knew that that this was some serious shit. Matt then picked up our bikes and heaved them over the gap. A moment later, we made a jump for it.
The noise of the industrial trucks, the cars and the thump of the expansion joints on the bridge...they all became quiet as we leaped for our lives, and more importantly to us, the fireworks. The mighty Meramec churned chocolate brown below while the wind tussled our hair. Other than that last embellishment about the hair, it was just like the movies. I'm not kidding.
To this day, it was one of the dumbest and most daring things I've ever done. Obviously, we safely accomplished our mission. Our parents never found out and we managed to keep from blowing our fingers off with the stash of m80s that we acquired.
A couple years later, Matt upgraded to a Schwinn World Sport and the Blue Stingray Deluxe became mine. And while it never made another trip to Valley Park, it was a kick ass bike to do wheelies and patrol the neighborhood as CHiPs officer Jon Baker.
Tomorrow: a bright daisy in the dark ages.
Goldilocks and the 3 Bears
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Let's pick up the story in roughly the middle of the action.
... Goldilocks first sampled Papa Bear's porridge, "Holy shit, that's hot,"
she cried, toss...
2 years ago
there was a lady on the Keystone this summer riding, I believe, an Apple Krate Stingray. I saw her a couple of times. The second time I thought about pushing her over and taking the bike, but I couldn't figure out how to get it home with me.
ReplyDeleteI know, the blogs are getting longer. If it annoys you, read this pithy blog.
ReplyDeleteDang, Bryan, I wanted to be the first to post on my own blog, but you beat me to it!
ReplyDeleteAnyway, you should have pushed her over anyway and figured out a way to tow it home. You could have sold it to Fred...he's looking for a cool bike to decorate for parades.
ReplyDeleteI can't believe you left out the part where you found the body. Good story, though.
ReplyDeleteAnd I smugly thought that I was being more like Richard Bachman.
ReplyDeleteReally, it was a true story and there was no body.
It is obviously true. That's what's so terrifying. My only hope is that my boys hide their hijinks as well as you and your brother did. Otherwise, I won't survive it.
ReplyDeleteAlthough, I guess posting the story on "Teh Internets" is not exactly hiding anything. I hope they hide it better, and for longer than you and your brother. Or I won't survive it.
ReplyDeleteAgain, Brady steals my thunder--or just tries to be like me....
ReplyDeleteI made that same ride solo circa 1975 on the Men's Schwinn 5 speed collegiate with a blue canvas backback on my back that left me sweaty. I remember the absolute freedom I felt on Barrett Station Road rolling down towards the mighty Meramac River. My mind was expanded on what a bike could do for me. I crossed that Rubicon and my-own-self...but I didn't cry like a baby whilst I did it.
I bought fireworks for another guy at Greenbriar who peeled off a $20 for me to bring him back some good stuff. He was a bit older, don’t remember his name. Not on the Swim Team. That $20 represented 4 loops of caddying back in the $4.75 + 25 cent tip and lunch/drink at the halfway house. I was a working man—he treated me like his mule…. If he wanted me to know he was rich, he may as well just held the $20 on a forked stick and waved it at me.
You were like twelve years old and had a FULL BEARD at the time you made the run, so of course you didn't cry.
ReplyDeletePlus, unlike being a contracted mule, I had a choice. As I stated, Matt encouraged me to turn back, but I wiped my tears and stood my ground.
I do admire your savvy business skills, though!
great story about you and your brother's forbidden quest for fireworks' on your sting-rays...
ReplyDeleteit made me verklempt. seriously.
i'm older than you. and my schwinn sting-ray - as well as myself - was 60's vintage. my sting-ray was blue. one summer, my dad, the poster child for cheapness, gave me one hell of a surprise when i came home from vacationing in northern michigan with my cousins. the moment my grandparents dropped me off at home, i bolted to the garage to make sure my sting-ray was "ok", of course. i nearly shit myself - - the old man had replaced my wore out banana seat with a new one that was silver metal-flake, with the matching blue stripes and S logo. he also replaced my gouged-up handle bars with new ones' that had four 1-inch vertical indentations on each vertical section of the handle bars. i'd never seen another sting-ray with these. he'd also put on a schwinn headlight (battery operated, kind of a pain-in-the-ass) that had two orange sidemarker lenses that protruded from each side. they illuminated when the headlight was on. lastly, he added this ginormous red reflector, about 8 inches in diameter (the rage in the late '60's) below the banana seat, on the two rear supports... and a new slick on the rear.
allow me to underscore, again, that this was so out of character for my dad... as if he'd had some brain tumor causing irrational and crazy behaviors... that made my dumbfoundedness even greater. i musta stood there, frozen, trying to process what i was seeing, for a long long time, dear readers.
so, creds to my dad.
but your story made me teary-eyed with a similar one of my own. my best friend since i was 5, bobby curley, myself and bobby's brother timmy (no names have been changed to protect the guilty), decided one day to ride our sting-rays to the beach. where we lived, the beach was far enough away (10 miles?) that going there was an outing only possible when your parents took you. which was not often, friends. now, my geographical range at the age of 9-ish was a few blocks in any direction, until a non-side street was reached, which was verboten to even contemplate crossing. period. but for some reason, on this very hot summer day, our sting-ray trio was comparatively going to the moon. we road our asses off... none of us truly sure of how far, or even where, the beach was. we were 9-ish and advanced driving directions was a grown-up skillset. the farther and longer we rode, the scared we got. but, like you with your brother on the bridge, chickening out was not an option. as we got within a couple miles of the beach, there were road signs directing us there. hell, getting that close was an accomplishment. suddenly, we were there. locked up our sting-rays and were kings of the beach, baby. that's right, at the beach WITHOUT our parents. we went swimming. we played frisbee with bigger kids. we took a nap in the sun on the sand... no beach towels for us, thank you. late afteroon was rolling around and we stood there, looking at each other, and one of us said, "i'm so hungry". "me too... man i'm thirsty", another one of us lamented. we all dug into our pockets and between all three of us we a few pennies and maybe a stinking quarter. no ice cold coke... or ice cream... or even a hotdog to split three ways. none of those tasty-ass french fries that were deep fried in beef fat, the way god intended. tired, thirsty, hungry and sunburned, we glumly got on our bikes. just the ride from the bike rack, across the huge parking lot, and to the main road, was brutal. we slowly started grinding our way back home. tormented by bone dry mouths and pounding headaches courtesy of the beating sun and lack of food. we were perhaps a couple miles down the road, sorry, sad sacks of shit, and timmy suddenly veered off into the parking lot of a grocery store. timmy... always the crafty little bastard. i was the biggest and meanest of the trio 9not saing much when you're 9-ish). bobby, a year older than timmy and i, was talented at bewitching adults with a look of innocence that got us out of many troublesome situations into our own adult years. but timmy, well, he didn't say much and he was a total wimp, but when the chips were down, he defined thinking-out-of-the-box. we coast up to the front of the supermarket doors and stop. timmy looks at both of us with this sly grin that initially drew fury from his brother and me - - "you had money all this time, timmy?" in classic timmy style, he ignored my balled fist and his brothers' glare and just motioned with his hand to follow him. we walk in the store, still bombarding him with our accusations and questions. he stopped midway down an aisle, turned and looked at a box of cookies on the shelf, and tore the box top open swiftly... and began jamming a handful of cookies into his mouth. crumbs and half-cookie chunks spilling everywhere. we each marauded down the aisles, oblivious to anyone else in the store, and like barbarians filled our mouths with crude fistfuls of food into our mouths. after several minutes, we met at the milk cooler and calmly passed a carton to each other. at this point, laughing fits took over and we ran out of the store, doubled over with sidesplitting laughter, and attempted to unlock our trusty sting-rays... it took for ever. as we sped off out of the parking lot, i heard a faint voice of some pursuer from the store. i never looked back and we raced back home... laughing and careening on our bikes... occasionally voicing our concern of the police catching up with us. then the laughter would take over again.
god, i wish i would've kept my sting-ray. i loved that bike.
good thinking timmy. and thanks, dad.
If this was the dumbest and most daring thing you've ever done then obviously this stingray excursion had a long lasting effect on your psyche.
ReplyDeleteI just bought my first bike in about 25 years, a Novara Transfer from REI.
ReplyDeleteI've been riding around a bunch, and my *ss is sore. Made me long for the banana seat I grew up on. So, feeling a bit nostalgic, I Googled for "banana seat" and "Schwinn stingray," and found your post.
My older brother, Matt, and I had the same bike. I inherited it when he bought a fancy Fuji ten speed with his paper route money.
Boy, your story and that photograph really take me back. I can so remember when fireworks were way more important than girls, or food, and the blue Stingray was a form of freedom.
Great story, nicely told.
I received my blue Stingray one summer in the early 80's. A flat tire sidelined my biking adventures and I put my chariot in our backyard until I could make the needed repairs. Unfortunately a thief got to my precious before I did and that ends my Stingray tale, so so sad.
ReplyDelete