Winds of Christmas Past
Memories of a Valley Boy
The wind woke us on Christmas morning 1962 in Van Nuys, Southern California. We waited at our bedroom doors for the signal from Mom and Dad. Then we charged down the hallway, bumping shoulders, sprinting to the tinsel-covered Christmas tree.
My brother John and I stopped, stunned by the glory of the bikes.
Two 10-speed Schwinn Varsity racing bicycles stood poised on their kickstands. Mine was metallic blue and John's gleamed metallic red! They were serious machines with sleek wrapped handlebars, chrome gear levers, shining dérailleur gears, and spartan leather saddles.
John and I wanted to ride in our pajamas, eager to race right now. We tried to push the bikes out the front door, but the strong Santa Ana winds slammed us back. Better to wait a while and open presents.
Our parents never held back during Christmas. Dad would joke that all he ever got for Christmas as a kid was a "board with a nail in the end of it." We knew they wanted us to have everything.
John and I goofed around with our new toys. I got busy with a gleaming new Erector Set. John fiddled with his etch-a-sketch. Our new Schuco Racers skidded across the kitchen floor. We set up the electric football game. Dad showed us offensive and defensive formations. We laughed and cheered as the twitching plastic players buzzed about the green sheet metal field. Later, we scuffed across the carpet in our socks, zapping each other with finger-tip bolts of static electricity.
All the while, our bikes beckoned. Despite the wind, we had to try again. Wrapped in windbreakers and bandanas, we pushed our new bikes through the door into a wall of wind.
We leaned into the searing Santa Ana wind. Sandblasting gusts blew newspapers, leaves, sticks, and trash cans down the street.
The race was on, a quick lap around the block!
Pushing hard against the pedals, we wobbled above the saddles, struggling like sailors battered by scorching waves. Our eyes filled with tears. Legs straining, we fought to the first corner. It was too much. We had to dismount. Then, with our backs to the wind, we caught a scorching ride home. Skidding into the driveway, we dragged our bikes back into the house.
We hoped to soar like eagles, but the wind scattered us like feathers.
It wasn't fair. Day after day, the Santa Anas held us captive indoors. Our dreams of flying down streets, pedaling through smoothly shifting gears, were sanded away. The joy of new bikes evaporated in the face of the mean desert wind.
One morning near the end of Christmas Vacation, I awoke to silence. The wind was gone. But I lay in bed sick with a sore throat, my nose running faster than my bike.
Outside, I hear the gleeful laughter of my little brother zooming past my window.
Ratz!