In the summer of 1978, I was eight years old. President Carter was in the White House, while disco and the Grease soundtrack blared from my parents’ eight-track.
My eight-year-old self wanted to be Danny Zuko (played by John Travolta in Grease) and a member of his super-cool gang, the Thunderbirds. If I could be a Thunderbird, I just knew my Sandy (played by Olivia Newton-John) was out in the world waiting for me.
My Thunderbirds consisted of my friends: Jason, Mike, Jerry, Tony, and Ricky. Instead of the souped-up 1948 Ford De Luxe Convertible in the movie, we had our secondhand bikes with mag wheels and flame stickers on the body.
We would ride through our neighborhoods in the summer heat and rain, seeking new adventures and waiting for something spectacular to happen. We had to come inside when lightning and thunder started, but there was nothing better than feeling the cool raindrops hit our faces as we rode through our East Tulsa neighborhood.
One day, as we were riding to Ricky’s house, two teenage bicycle riders were approaching us from the other side of the street. Behind them, a car pulled up alongside them as two other teenagers jumped out.
The teens in the car started beating up the two cyclists. When it was all over, one of the cyclists got back on his bike, wiping blood from his nose and a cut on his eye. The Thunderbirds had no idea what was going on, but we knew we had just witnessed something we would never forget. That was just one incident we witnessed caravaning through the streets in 1978.
Friend or Foe?
Another lesson we learned during the summer of 1978 was about having misconceptions and prejudices against people. There was a mentally ill man who rode a three-wheeler bike in our neighborhood.
The neighborhood kids maliciously called him “Crazy Jimmy.” The rumor on the streets was that he once went berserk in a local convenience store, screaming and throwing merchandise.
Every time we would see Jimmy riding our way, we would reverse our direction, peddling as fast as we could.
We could hear him in the distance, his voice slurred, calling for us to stop. We never did.
One day, however, when we were drinking Cokes and not paying attention, Jimmy pulled up to one of our driveways. Surprised at his close proximity, we froze, looking at each other. Shooting glances at each other, we all communicated the same thing—we’re dead.
Then, “Crazy Jimmy” spoke. With his slurred voice, he said, “My name is Jimmy. What’s yours?”
Jason spoke for us, “I’m Jason. This is Mitch, Mike, Tony, Jerry, and Ricky.”
Jimmy responded, “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve been trying to get you to stop so I could meet you. I guess you did not hear me.”
We shot another look at each other, knowing we did hear him but were trying to avoid him like the plague.
Over the next 15 minutes, we talked to Jimmy about his three-wheeler and our bikes. We did not die that day, but we learned a valuable lesson: Fear can be a barrier keeping us from experiences we should really have in life.
Jimmy was not “crazy.”Jimmy was a young man with special needs, but he also loved bikes and riding the streets of our neighborhood, just like we did.
More than witnessing violent attacks and learning life-altering lessons, we spent most of our time creating ramps and jumping over things with our bikes. We could find broken boards in dumpsters, sturdy enough to make a ramp. We’d then look for cinderblocks to prop up the ramp.
With the ramp “secured,” we’d look for things to jump over. If we could not find anything, then we would start jumping over each other.
The Eastside Tulsa Thunderbirds were not the brightest kids on the block.
There was a rival gang in our neighborhood that we tried to “avoid” as much as we could. We called them the Pink Ladies (because of Grease).
The Pink Ladies had pink and yellow bikes with tassels streaming from their handlebars. They scared the hell out of us because, more than a teen brawl; the girls were terrifying to a group of eight-year-old boys.
As the summer progressed, we had more encounters with the Pink Ladies, mostly because Jason convinced us they were not that terrifying. He had his own Sandy that he was pursuing.
The more I reflect on the summer of 1978, and honestly, all of my childhood summers, the more I long for the simplicity and innocence of it all. These summer days of riding through the street, feeling the morning and evening sun kissing your cheeks, listening to the birds sing their songs, and laughing with the Thunderbirds were almost perfect.
What We’ve Lost
Recently, The Atlantic published an article addressing the cultural loss of children playing outside and in the street. Instead of letting children roam their neighborhoods, parents are forced to set up playdates, coordinate outings with friends, or invest in more technology to entertain the kids at home. Parents are scared of children being abducted or abused, which are legitimate concerns, to say the least.
However, I do wonder what we’ve lost by eliminating child bicycle gangs roaming neighborhoods. On those daily rides, I had a lot of fun, but I also learned so much.
I learned the benefits of friendship and community. I learned about conflict and prejudices. I learned how to talk to people (girls) who terrified me.
I learned creative ways to have fun by building ramps. I learned about the positives and negatives of taking risks (more than once, I hid tire marks on my stomach from my parents).
With the risk of sounding like the old guys reminiscing about the good old days, I long for the summer of 1978. Living in a world that seems to be on fire, with new ones starting every day, I hope for a day when kids can once again ride their bikes through their neighborhoods, feeling the breeze in their hair, the sun warming their faces, and hearing their friends’ laughter.
Thunderbirds and Pink Ladies, mount up. It’s time to ride!
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