A Life on Wheels
by
Jack Francis
(A slightly different version of this commentary was read by the author on CBC's "Manitoba Voices".)
My first memory of life on Planet Manitoba is my third birthday, the year of the kiddie-kar. That was my first set of wheels. This red and green vehicle was sturdy and squat, with a large seat to avoid tipovers and falloffs. It had easy-to-reach pedals so that short, chubby legs could propel it along at a decent rate of speed, on floors or sidewalks.
Thus, at the age of three, I abandoned my year-long crusade to perfect walking, and took to wheels with a will. And enthusiasm, not unlike that of my mother when she got her first automatic egg beater. You know, that plug-in whirligig thing that evolved into the food processor. Oh yes, we ate a lot of beater foods for a while after that event, so keen was she to enjoy the magic ease of the device.
My mother soon moved on to other kinds of cooking, but I never got over my infatuation with wheels. I never did learn how to walk all that well, and still don't do it unless absolutely necessary. My wife will pull up at the farthest corner of the parking lot, to provide herself with an invigorating walk to the supermarket entrance. But when I'm driving, a half dozen circuits of the lot is not unusual, in a relentless search for that rare space near the door.
Over the years, my love affair with wheels progressed from kiddie-kar to tricycle, to bicycle, to small car, to compact, to van, to sports car, to big car, and to my latest love, the mountain bike. Each of these sets of wheels had its own special time and place.
My first two-wheeler bicycle, for example, got me to school and all around town and district. Yes, I am one of those people from an era of great distances, whom the young people of today's shrinking world just love to hear about. We had to walk more than a mile to school - no school buses in our division then. And, sometimes, it was through snow up to our hips - very few classes were cancelled due to inclement weather in those days.
But, when I could use my bike, distances were no problem. That bike also made it possible to earn pocket money, delivering groceries or newspapers. My dad said it was the best investment he ever made, considering all the money he put into his cars, which always cost him plenty, and never paid him any.
My own experience with cars just continued my lifelong praise of the Law of the Lever. This, we learned in Physics class, was the basis of the wheel's success in easing our way over the earth's friction-prone surface.
The small car was what we could afford in the early days of marriage. When the family, and income, grew, the wheels got bigger, too. And so came van time. The van was ideal for that period when transporting offspring and friends to sporting, social and other important events, was the story of my life.
Then came mid-life crisis and the sports car. This was a fairly short period of time, since the little vehicle was, in some ways, just too reminiscent of where I started with the kiddie-kar. So, it was soon time for a nice, big, comfortable sedan, with automatic everything.
And now it's the ultimate in wheels, the mountain bike, with the sturdy frame, the big, soft-riding tires, the bottle for water, the kit for energy-boosting food bars. Plus the 14 gears (most of which I've used) that make light work of headwinds and uphill grades.
And I laugh at high gas prices. The sedan logs a lot of garage time while I ride the mountain bike in all kinds of weather. To the bank, to the dentist, the doctor, to athletic events. Even to the store, where they have a bicycle rack, right next to the door.
What's next in the wonderful world of wheels? Well, you see people of all ages on those in-line, roller-blades. I'll pass on the skateboard, but I hear the scooter is making a comeback, motorized and otherwise, so that could be worth a try. And, if my final set of wheels should happen to be a wheelchair, well, you can be sure I'll find a way to enjoy that, too.
This is Jack Francis in Winnipeg about to take to my wheels.