Growing up in Louisa – Getting Around!
Weekly feature . . . by Mike Coburn
I guess the first mode of transportation after my ride back from my birth hospital was in a pram, which is a fancy word for what most of us call a baby buggy. Although I have some very early memories, I can’t say I remember any trips around the neighborhood when mom took me for a stroll. I do remember the pram still hanging about in our apartment at the Louisa Inn long after I was too big to use it. My cousin Julia was placed in it when I was maybe three to four years old, so I have to assume I had ridden in it earlier. I also suppose that when we encountered someone known to mom, she likely pulled back the hood so they could see me down there wrapped in blankets and likely asleep. They would ‘oh and ah’ over my alleged beauty. Ha! I had them fooled.
When I had grown enough to sit up without tilting over I was switched to a stroller. I remember the wooden parts were painted a light blue or maybe turquoise. The sweeping lines were so art 
deco. The tires were white and there was a wire bent around the front with little beads that would slide from one side to the other. It was important to me that they were evenly spaced without gaps, preferably at the very end of the wire. So for at least the beginning of my journey I could sit up, play with the beads and see something of the town. It was bumpy when I was wheeled across the railroad tracks, but otherwise the roads and sidewalks traveled easily. I remember mom would turn me around when encountering a curb to easily pull me up onto the sidewalk where she’d straighten the stroller out again. The only problem was if mom made stops here and there, I would be fairly certain to slag over into a little clump and find time for some shuteye. I found it easy to overlook the bumps and jars such a trip entailed. I fell to sleep easily then, in spite of the occasional hardships of a bumpy road. It seems as I continue to grow older, I can still doze off for those wonderful mini-naps. A rule was learned that travel induced sleep. Because of my poor riding posture I also learned early in life that I would wake with a stiff neck and some sore body parts. They were easy enough to work out once I was freed from my bondage.
After time rolled on for another bit, new modes of transportation popped up for this little traveler. As a gift on some forgotten occasion, this little muffin was given a new tricycle. It was to become a wonderful conveyer of my person once I had grown big enough to mount the thing and make it work. I had seen my cousin George ride a bike, so I had a good idea of its potential attributes and uses. It’s good that I had a model in him, lest I be stumped by the pretty machine. After all, at that particular time a manual would have been of little use to me since I couldn’t yet read; not that I would have anyway. After all, I am a male, so manuals are generally off limits for us tough guys. I learned early on that instructions were not needed even though they were written in English (in those days). They were to be proven to be totally unnecessary.
The ‘trike’ had these neat plastic, or rubber grips (for lack of a proper name), which had some fringe-like strings that hung down, giving an air of the western influence that was so popular at the time. It was altogether fitting that I thought of this new ride as my trusty steed. I still wasn’t 
that good at mounting it, but once I learned to lift my leg appropriately, it soon became more or less automatic. Regardless, my legs were not of sufficient length to stay upon the pedals for the full circle required to keep it moving down the sidewalk. This forced me to instead place my feet on the ground and push. For a time that method was most satisfactory. It may have been harder on the shoes, however, since I sometimes pushed so that one of my feet would end up pointing to the rear and in tight contact with the ground. This motion scuffed the toe of the shoe and would eventually wear through exposing my socks or tender foot. Neither mom nor I cared much for that, so I pined for the day I would grow sufficiently to allow me to pedal properly.
Being bright and full of wisdom even at this young age, another method soon became apparent. I discovered that the rear axle had a platform specifically made for people with my affliction. That is, the platform was a place for me to stand while others pushed me from behind. I soon found that if they were too enthusiastic, I would go faster than I could safely ride, often steering off the sidewalk and spilling over onto the grass. I would hear later that grass-stain was hard to remove from clothing. Actually, this was the beginning of reminders to occur throughout my youth and well into my teen years.
It wasn’t long before a kind neighbor came along and told me something that neither my mother nor I knew. The seat was adjustable. He loosened a nut, slid the seat forward, and had me mount the steed for my first fully, self-generated ride. It was wonderful! Just to think he knew this without reading a manual. That was further confirmation that manuals weren’t necessary. I saw that for us smart people such knowledge is innate, at least for males.
My next challenge took a greater toll on my knees and elbows. It was a time well before training wheels were commonly attached to bikes, so I had to learn riding a bike by trial and error. Mom or someone else would run along with me with their hands on the seat in hopes of keeping me upright. In time, I asked them to desist when I figured out they were actually slowing me down and preventing me from riding on my own. After hours of practice I was off on what must be like flying a plane solo. Yes, there was a danger of a crash, but I had confidence as I pedaled up Franklin. Then I made a left on Lady Washington, and proudly sped up. The next left was that fateful hill on Powhatan. I’ve told the story before, so many of you may remember that my heroic mom extracted my head from the front wheel without breaking out too many of the spokes. The lump on my head is still there, or at least it seems so to me. It haunts me that maybe I wasn’t meant to look this way. The last laugh was mine because there’s nothing in the manual about how to handle Wheeler’s Hill, so reading it wouldn’t have helped.
As a teen these experiences were why I was more cautious about learning to drive a car. I knew that the cost of an error with such a powerful conveyance is so much higher. Anyway, I really wanted to surmount all the issues before chasing a pedestrian up a sidewalk, or to find myself tumbling down a hill into some waterway, or into someone’s home. During my teen years I drove on many of Lawrence County’s dirt roads and trails, but I would not take a driving test and obtain my license during my tenure there. In fact, I would be away in the Air Force before I ‘took the test,’ and finally get my driver’s license. I bought an old car the same week. I practiced driving it on an unused runway on the base.
Several months later, being a member of the US Air Force, I turned my attention upwards and had thoughts of conquering flying. I wondered if it was time for me to enroll in flying school and 
get my pilots license. While yet following that thought, it happened that I was riding in the copilot’s seat of a small Air Force plane in route to a Michigan base. In truth I had no official role except to be a companion to the pilot. When I knew I was approximately over my mother’s home in Plymouth, Michigan, I called her and told her I was flying over her house. While the pilot was actually the one in control, he had allowed me to take the wheel for a moment while he looked up some vectors on a map. Technically, I guess I was flying, but not really without close supervision. Anyway, after the sermon I got from my scared mom I decided to cease any such notions of flying in favor of staying on the ground. When the thought again entered my mind it would be my wife who heartedly discouraged me. She figured that I would someday try to fly without consulting a manual. Where did she get that weird idea?
Sometime between all of these transportation episodes, I rode a horse, or maybe two, and even a motorcycle once, or twice. I lived to regret the latter. You see, my first attempt at riding the motorcycle was a bit austere. I didn’t know how to stop the dad-burned thing. I dragged my feet for nearly two blocks before I remembered that an old English bike I once owned had the brakes on the handlebar. Finally, I applied appropriate pressure to the lever and the bike stopped. With a swagger that suggested to any observers that all was in control, I dismounted and strutted back without the bike. The problem was that inside I knew the truth. Whew! Maybe I should go back to the tricycle? Maybe I need a new pair of shoes?
Actually, I am a good driver of automobiles. My wife and children will vouch for that. I should leave it at that, I suspect. I learned a hard lesson, though. With the newer vehicles I discovered that if I want to use it, I must sneak out at midnight and retrieve the stupid manual. Even so, three years later and I am still finding buttons and systems for things that I had no idea were installed. What a waste it will be if I trade it in before I learn what the engineers designed for my convenience. Far from the cars I grew up with, these machines function in spite my input or direction. I mean, I even get email from my car reminding me of tire air pressure, upcoming oil changes, and the weather. My pram never did that. Makes me wonder what’s next. I can’t wait to find out. mcoburncppo@aol.com
