An American Flyer

I'm sitting here listening to ELO's 1976 album "A New World Record", perhaps my favorite one from the band. I didn't listen to it much when it first came out, but almost three years later, it was a near constant soundtrack for my life.
You should have seen me back then. I just went inactive in the Civil Air Patrol and decided to let my hair grow long, and by March, it was touching my shoulders. I also rebelled by refusing to shave. When St. Patrick's Day 1979 rolled along, I had a fairly full, light brown beard (the only time in my life when I'd have a fairly full beard, in fact). I was sixteen, and had just discovered that girls were interested in me, and I was more than willing to indulge them.
Thanks to my brother Terry, I had learned to drive, but didn't have the money to even think about a car. So, my chief form of transportation were my ten-speeds, namely a Murray nicknamed "Spindrift". It was small for a ten-speed, 28" wheels, but unlike my Schwinn, I could fly on it. It was on that bike that Terry once clocked me at 30 MPH on level ground. And I had gone much faster. It was just a good bike.
The Christmas of 1977, Mom bought me a GE mini casette recorder and player. When I entered tenth grade, in late summer 1978, I made dual earplugs, a full five years before Sony would make them commonplace with the Walkman. It wasn't stereo, but it insured that I had the music coming through both ears with no external distractions. And I had "A New World Record" on casette. Perfect match.
The first time I tried to use the bike and casette combo was in late March. I still had the brace from my broken collarbone on, and it was awkward and painful at times. Somehow, I managed to work around it. Initially, I carried the player. That didn't quite work out. Next, I found the perfect solution; make a strap on the handle bars to hold the player. That worked. I was now set. In late March, the collarbone brace and bandages finally came off, and full mobility returned. It was spring. The beard also went away. I was in love... with love. I had a bike, I had music. I was set.
It must have been an interesting image, me racing along Southside Boulevard at a full clip, my light brown hair blowing in the breeze, ELO blasting in both ears, as I raced along towards whomever I was seeing that week. There was a certain thrill in it; the feel of the wind across my face was wonderful. In my mind, I was flying at low altitude. No more were the impressive little stunts of my earlier years important; no more flying dismounts, no more catwalks, no more "hands-free" steering. They weren't important anymore, since I knew I could do them. No, what was important was forward momentum, heading towards God-knows-what with reckless abandon.
In the spring of 1979, I became an American flyer. The feeling was amazing, and looking back on it, it all makes sense now. It wasn't the fact that I was riding over Marcia's, or Melinda's or Jamie's. It was that I was simply moving. I could go anywhere, do anything. It was the journey, not the destination.
That's what it's all about. Almost three decades later, I realize that again. It's not where your going, it's simply going. And I'm going again... and what a ride it is going to be!