My bicycle has been in the garage since a while after helmets were required for riders. Wanting nothing on my head heavier than a scarf, I could ignore the rule, which was for kids, not adults, but a friend, who had taken two bad falls, was getting a helmet.
The bike had been a birthday gift back in the 1960s when riding it was mainly for fun in the neighborhood, not even for shopping. By 1970, with people concerned about the environment, riding became ecological to avoid using the car and thus to save fuel.
It was about then that I decided to follow a rubbish collector, or solid waste collector, on his route. Well, actually, I called one of the companies about possibly using a truck with sections for recyclables, so they could be picked up along with rubbish, but separated. First, he suggested that volunteering at a hospital would be a better use for my time, but then said I had no idea what collectors were up against. Okay, he said, I could follow along behind one of his trucks to see.
I told a newspaper reporter my plan and he was eager to ride his bike along, too. We had no idea who lived in the houses, so there could be no problem with confidentiality. We got to see little white maggots in the bottom of a can, something collectors complained about because homeowners did not wrap certain food in newspaper. (This was before plastic bags became so common.) There was an unbelievable number of garbage cans in the garage of a family with at least five kids, judging by the number of skis hanging in the garage. Their bowling pins and balls were going out, which broke my heart that I couldn’t take them. Collectors were forbidden to “rescue” any discards. Such a shame.
Our little outing on bikes resulted in a great article with a photo of us on the bikes.
Now, over 40 years later, I was thinking that my bike should be donated. The Rotary Club was planning to collect bicycles, have them refurbished and then donated to needy kids. But wait, nostalgia was taking over. My bike had become a historical item, so I would pass this time — maybe next year. But, one thing for sure: I would not be buried with it.
In the ’70s a woman requested that she be buried with her beloved car, and her husband, who had millions, was ready to grant her wish. Even if I were rich, no Hyundai, or whatever I might be driving by then, would go into the ground with me. However, I suppose my cremains could go into the saddlebags on the back of the bike for a last ride.
Byrna Porter Weir was born and grew up in Houlton, where her parents were portrait photographers. She now lives in Rochester, N.Y.
