Anyone who says he has a high threshold for pain never got his toe caught between chain and sprocket on a bicycle.
In the early 1950s I got a new bike for Christmas, a shiny Western Flyer that Dad bought at the Western Auto Store in Iola. When I awoke Christmas morning, it was sitting by the tree.
I rode the bike a bit then, but ice and snow delayed most adventures until later. When the weather warmed, it and I seldom were separated. My friends and I would meander around Humboldt — and then ride like the dickens at mealtime to congregate at one another’s houses for impossible-to-beat home-cooking.
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