The Bike: A Childhood Memory of 1943, by Izola Mottershead

Izola Mottershead describes her excitement at receiving a bicycle for her birthday in 1943, during World War Two. This unexpected present provided her with much pleasure riding through Edmonton's river valley and served a number of practical purposes unti

The "pen stretch" was that part of Jasper Avenue that skirted the top of the hill in front of the Federal Penitentiary, and it ran from 91st Street, where the Latta Bridge spanned the ravine, to 84th Street. Jasper Avenue itself continued eastward several blocks to the "hog's head" at Kinnaird Ravine. This long stretch of narrow parkland had a nice wide sidewalk with a broad expanse of grass on either side, and a good assortment of shrubs along the top of the hill. Of course, there were always strollers or kids on bikes who wanted to walk or ride on the other side of the shrubs, right on the brink of the hill. This afforded a spectacular view of the valley and the North Saskatchewan River, to say nothing of the extra privacy it afforded sweethearts who could stroll arm in arm and occasionally sneak a kiss. Over the years, a narrow path became entrenched and only Mother Nature altered it at times.


In 1943, World War II was raging on in Europe with many repercussions here at home. We grumbled about food rationing and other inconveniences, but at the same time felt patriotic because we were supporting the war effort right here at home, in our daily lives. Also in 1943, I turned 12 years old. At that time, my two older brothers both had bicycles, but they were extremely selfish about sharing them with me. I think they were second-hand bikes of a pre-war issue because the handlebars were shiny stainless steel, and not some dull alloy, and the tires were made of rubber, not artificial stuff. Because it was wartime, it was difficult even to get a new bike, much less pay for it on a salesman's wages, especially one raising four kids. So, as much as I yearned for my own bike, my hopes were not too high. I had been told time and time again it was out of the question.


I had my birthday party, but had to wait till after supper to get my present from mom and dad. In spite of all the nay saying, I did get my bike that day, but my elation turned to dismay when I took in the fact that it was a boy's bike, with horrible dull gray handlebars. No matter, I was a tough tomboy, used to riding a boy's bike, and soon became joyful again.


That bike went through many trials and tribulations during the fifteen or more years I had it. My brothers would "borrow" it, without asking, whenever theirs fell into disrepair. They rode it down the front porch steps and did other disrespectful things to it. I gave it a knock or two myself, one the result of a ride along the path on the edge of the hill. It had been raining cats and dogs for a few days, but was finally warm and dry again, so I took off for a ride. It took a fair amount of skill to ride that narrow pathway because it took sudden dips and bends, challenging my ability to stay upright. But I was good! I skimmed along enjoying the view, my bike, and my skill. As I turned a bend a horrific sight appeared-too late to do anything about it. The rain had washed out a gully about a foot wide and seven or eight inches deep, just wide enough to stop my front wheel cold, catapulting me head first over the hill into some wild rose bushes. The bike came down on top of me. There wasn't a soul around so there was no point in crying. In frustration, I hauled my bruised body and pride, along with my bike, which wasn't hurt a bit, up the hill and dragged us all home. No consolation there either, just hoots of laughter.


That bike saw me through many adventures and when I got married in 1950, it went right along with me. It got a new set of real rubber tires, shiny steel handlebars, and a new seat. We lived in Beverly. Stan, my husband, worked as a darkroom technician for Housez Studios, on 95th Street and Jasper Avenue. We didn't have the means for a car or even for bus fare for that matter, so Stan rode my bike to work every day. When our son Wayne was born prematurely, he had to be in an incubator for three weeks, so it fell upon Stan to deliver my milk to the old Misericordia Hospital on 112 Street and Jasper Avenue, every morning before going to work. He would park the bike and try to sneak into the maternity ward with his precious cargo. He was always very punctual and the nurses were waiting. Someone would yell, "Here comes the milkman."


Eventually, the old bike was dismantled. The wheels were put on an old buggy converted into a hot-rod. That wonderful craft took a spitfire trip down "cinder hill" with one of my sons on board. That was the final adventure for my gallant bike.