My pride and joy parked in front of the family
ranch, small town Ohio, circa MCMLXXX. This was a time and a place when bicycle may as well have been spelled Schwinn (though the unionized shop that made them was affiliated with the United Auto Workers). Those folding baskets were briefly the bees knees, and usually held tightly rolled newspapers to be thrown at soon-to-be-dented aluminum (4 syllables are all you really need) doors. That big chrome headlamp was also a selling point. Three speeds, all of them sedate. It weighed a significant percentage of my own bodyweight, but it wouldn’t have occurred to anybody to put a bike on a scale.
The house in the background to the left belonged to a man whose wife later left him for a Mr True, who owned a bike shop. Mrs True went catty-corner too.
