There are millions of color combinations in the world. Maybe billions. But if you want to buy a 24-inch beach cruiser girls bike, it seems there are only three choices: pink, pale blue, and light green.
Somebody explain this to me.
I know this because I’ve been in the bike shopping business for a couple of months now. My daughter, as she is rudely known to do, keeps growing. The last time she went to ride her bike, she resembled a gorilla on a toy. Her knees jutted out so far that they looked like wings.
“Child,” I said, “this bike is done!”
But 24 inches is an odd size with major color limitations. Obviously those three colors sell best — I can’t argue with that — but my daughter isn’t in to any of them, and the search is driving me nuts.
As a kid, I don’t remember having an awful lot of color choices. For little boys, color didn’t really matter than much anyway. It would quickly be covered in a crust of mud, grease and probably my own blood.
More important, at least for a boy like me, was that it looked “mean” — a dirt bike with attitude. The tires would have treads like angry teeth. The handle bars needed to be sturdy and cocked forward. The seat had to be tar black. And there couldn’t be any safety devices anywhere — no nighttime reflectors or foam pads keeping you from knocking your teeth out. (Knocking your teeth out was a badge of honor!) In fact, the best bike already had rust so there was the constant threat of tetanus. That’s a true rebel bike!
Bikes weren’t meant for riding or looking good. I don’t remember riding my bike or showing it off. I remember launching it off of wobbly ramps in the driveway. We made them from flimsy, termite-eaten plywood and concrete blocks that always seemed to be in good supply. (Where did we get all those concrete blocks? Did we steal them from construction sites!?!)
It’s obvious that children don’t understand physics by how they build bike ramps. They’re impossibly steep and teeter on wobbly blocks, ensuring that the first pass will end in spectacular fashion … and a trip to the hospital. As a buddy was loaded into the ambulance, I always remember thinking: “Why didn’t that work? We pointed it straight up!”
That was what a bike needed to be.
But I’m finding bike shopping with my daughter — a 10-year-old — is a different experience. It’s all about color now, and since she isn’t digging any of them, we keep hunting for the perfect one.
Truth is, if she saw one of those mud-crusted BMX death bikes somewhere, she would probably take it. And I wonder how she would feel about launching it over a sketchy ramp with “hospital visit” written all over it?