My first day of school involved a tricycle, a schoolyard gang fight and me.
My mother offered to walk me to my first day of school knowing I had never been to a school; to a kindergarten or a pre-school environment in my life. This was all uncharted ground to both of us.
I made ready for the journey by slipping my arms through the heavy straps of an olive green cotton army backpack purchased from the local army-navy surplus store downtown.
Inside that backpack was my metal Roy Rogers lunch box filled with a cheese sandwich and other edible stuff prepared by my mother along with a Thermos jar filled with grape juice.
Also included in that backpack was the required cardboard cigar box full of pencils, sharpeners, erasers and all sorts of other devices and effects readying me for the launch of an academic career.
Early September was still warm even in the mountains and I swung my leg over the seat of the tricycle in full Roy Rogers style and settled onto the saddle of my Trigger. Then, my mother and I began our two block trek to the school.
Once there, we parked the tricycle as best we could near the metal bike stands in front of the elementary school building which were hardly designed to accommodate a tricycle. I fully expected to ride Trigger back home alone at the finish of the school day.
A crowd of students began milling around us as we tied up Trigger to the metal post. This unexpected attention left my mother visibly wondering if riding a tricycle to the first day of first grade was a good idea after all.
The milling students finally erupted in laughter, jeers and belly-grabbing guffaws at the site of a meticulously cared-for tricycle taking up space between the more mature and rusted Huffy and Schwinn two wheelers.
One of the kids from the milling and guffawing crowd nearby raced up to me, socked me in the stomach, pushed me to the ground and began fist pummeling me right there in the presence of my mother for the crime of having arrived at school on a tricycle.
In a second, the other kids were now released to take out their frustrations on me and the tricycle gang war was on.
Everybody seemed to be taking a bite at the geek apple I had unknowingly offered and my only defense was to hand out some random punches to these tricycle haters.
Then out of nowhere came a somewhat husky, intense other first grader who began pummeling and laying aside each of the Jets/Sharks wannabees with one hand and tossing the others aside to the gravel playground with the other hand for later retribution.
Upon this unexpected intercession, most of the Sharks and Jets cowered and quickly backed away from the Tricycle Terminator.
Doug Cramer became my protector on that day and remained so until we left high school twelve years later as friends and high school football team co-members although he never really understood the tricycle thing.
Peace Doug. Wherever you are. I don’t understand it either.