It doesn’t take much — most any incident, abstract statement or far-fetched subject — to make me start wondering, thinking and remembering bygone days.

I was driving in the Blue Ridge Mountains a few days ago. A persistent, cold, misty rain was falling. I rounded a very steep uphill bend and had to hit the brakes very hard. If I hadn’t been going quite slowly, I would have had to either plow right into four young bikers, or run off the edge and (horrible thought) perhaps through the guardrails, plummeting to almost certain death down the sheer mountainside.

I was really ticked off that these young guys were doing something so stupid and blatantly dangerous. The youthful bicyclists finally maneuvered off to the side enough for me to get around them. In passing, I glared at them, shaking my head in disapproval.

“Crazy, thoughtless, uncontrolled kids!” I muttered to myself. “What in the heck are they doing way out here in the rain anyway?” A little voice from deep down answered: “They’re boys! You know what boys do!”

When I was a kid, having a bike was a big deal — one of the fondest wishes and dreams of childhood. Most kids didn’t get one until they were nine or ten years old — and it would probably be the only bicycle they’d ever have. Some of the poorer kids never got one. You never saw small children riding around on tiny bicycles and, almost never, long distance bikers on fancy 10-speed bikes.

Nowadays you often see highway signs with a bicycle emblem and the message: “Share the Road.” I believe in sharing, but the fact remains that cars are much faster than bicycles, and also much bigger. A biker probably won’t ever smash into and flatten a car or truck, causing death and destruction, but even a small car can demolish a bike, resulting in a really bad day for the biker.

As I drove my disgruntled my way along that mountain road, I passed a hillside meadow where an old, gray barn with a rusty tin roof slept peacefully, watched over by four or five ancient apple trees. An abundant crop of ripening red apples glowed cheerfully in the rain. This scene reminded me of a biking adventure I had as a young, happy-go-lucky kid. Remembering, I felt a mite sheepish about my angry and reproachful feelings towards the mountain bikers. When their age, I’d surely had my own share of roguish and rash activities.

I was about 11 years old and riding my old, fenderless bike home late one fall evening from visiting a friend. I stopped halfway down a steep hill to “snitch” a couple of ripe apples from a large tree near the dirt driveway of a farmhouse that stood well off the road. I climbed the large tree, shook down a number of large, luscious, red apples, and was just stuffing them in my jacket pockets when two large dogs came tearing up the driveway, growling and snarling like bloodthirsty wolves.

I forgot the apples, scrambled onto the bike, and took off just a few yards ahead of the slavering monster dogs. Fortunately, I was going down a steep hill. I quickly gained a fairly high rate of speed and drew my feet up onto the crossbar, but the hellhounds were still roaring and snapping at the back tire and my bottom. Thank God they didn’t manage to knock me down! They finally got tired and gave up.

For days after, I had vivid mental pictures of my mangled remains, and the two apples I had stashed in my pockets turned out to be very sour.

T&D Columnist Rush Button can be reached by e-mail at buttonrl@aol.com or by phone at 803-534-3724. His column appears every Tuesday.

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