A chance encounter in the early 2000’s at a gathering of my friends’ neighbors re-introduced me to The Green Machine (TGM), a larger version of the Big Wheel.
Built for ‘tweens and guys small enough to act like one, I asked if I could try it out. Sure enough, I fit on the thing, and I had a grand time in front of a bunch of dumbfounded kids.
The secret juice of TGM involves three ingredients:
A proper, inflatable bicycle tire up front with a pedal brake = SPEED
Two slick plastic wheels at the rear = DRIFTING
Two rear wheel steering levers = INSANITY
The original plastic TGM’s were built by Marx in 1969. At some point, Huffy debuted their own version in 1975 (probably a controversy in there), using a steel frame.
Though they still manufacture them, I dreamt for many years of finding one dirt cheap.
Then, sometime before the pandemic of 2020, I spotted an authentic Green Machine on the east end of Lancaster languishing in a front yard.
Though rusted and abused, I was determined to acquire the trike through some wheelin’ ‘n dealin’ just like dear old Dad.
I boldly walked up the narrow sidewalk to the front door of a small row home.
Knock knock.
Hey, my name’s Tom. I was wondering if anyone’s using that Green Machine over there.
(I point to the bike on my left, lying akimbo in the tall grass).
A gruff, middle-aged guy emerged from the screen door.
Oh, that thing? You can take it! But hang on, let me get my brother. He’ll know. for sure. ‘Hey, Doug! There’s a guy out here who wants this bike!’
Doug came around from the side of the house. Same age, same disposition, but taller with glasses and a bigger gut.
What, this trike here? You can have it.
Disappointed that my bargaining skills lay dormant, I countered:
You mean for free? Like, you guys don’t want it? Will some kids be disappointed? Can I give you ten bucks for it?
Doug replied:
Hell, no. These kids are always running around on all kinds of stuff. I find crap like this at work all the time and bring it home.
I didn’t ask where he worked. But I assumed it was a dump, city park, or Ollie’s.
You can take it now if you want.
I pointed to my bicycle and said I’d be glad to come back for it.
My enthusiasm triggered a flash of irrationality.
I feared it would be my luck, having secured the prize, that some kid would suddenly treasure it like that poor five year old boy who clung to the one liver brown puppy in the litter, the one he didn’t want to give up but my parents just had to have and that became my beloved companion Pammy.
Still chokes me up to think of that kid. He got his own puppy though, even if it wasn’t Pammy.
Can I put it somewhere safe?
Doug pointed to the side of the house.
Drag it over there. She’ll be here when you come back.
So I drug her next to a bush. Or dragged it, if you prefer. I thanked the brothers and rode home.
Nothing to see here.
That night, I pulled up next to the sidewalk in my Subaru, flung open the tailgate, glanced around the block feeling very suspicious, and approached the trike.
My new acquisition was heavier and ganglier than I expected as I carried it on my hip. I tried to hurry to avoid any suspicion of skullduggery.
As I was placing it in the hatch, my friend Kristen just happened to drive by. I was in her neighborhood. She stopped and asked me what I was doing.
I’m not stealing anything, really!
Kristen, with no surprise in her face at all, listened to my story, grinned, and bid me good night.
True friends are those who aren’t terribly alarmed by us.
If you have a piece of parsley in your gums, they’ll tell you. If you haul odd contraptions out of a stranger’s property in the evening, they’ll assume all is fine.
Rejuiced.
During the long days of the pandemic, I thoroughly dismantled, cleaned, and sanded my new toy’s frame before painting it florescent green. I replaced many of the bolts and touched-up the plastic parts.
It’s now a part of my fleet and gets used by kids who can reach the pedals and smallish adults who are related to me.
Friendly neighbors.
As I slide into my conclusion, I can’t help but feel there’s something in this story about plain old neighborliness.
If it weren’t for Doug and his brother’s generosity, my penchant for knocking on doors, and Kristen’s willingness to not call the cops, I’d still be Green Machine-less.
Not all neighbors are so normal and nice.
Recently I passed through a crossroads in Lancaster County and spied another Green Machine languishing in a junk pile next to a brick building (pictured above).
I returned with my station wagon to see if I could take it off the owner’s hands.
The small tobacco warehouse seemed to have an occupied second floor, but no one was home except a yappy dog.
I motioned to a guy on a lawn tractor who looked like he could’ve been Doug’s country brother.
Steve gladly shut down his motor and gave me the lowdown on the hamlet, its history and current state of affairs.
He was jovial and trusting toward me. I didn’t approach him with a plate of cookies, but he could tell I had good intentions and seemed mostly harmless.
Tractor Steve warned me, however, about the presumed owner of TGM. She was an educated woman from Europe who had moved in recently.
The day I met her she come (sic) walking onto my property and starts lecturing me about my white privilege. We haven’t talked since.
After that interchange I wasn’t feeling quite right about lifting the bike. So I lifted two nice rear wheels instead. Good thing I had my tools.
OK, so maybe there are a couple of morals to this story.
If you’re new to a place, leave your lecture at home and bring cookies to your neighbors.
If you’re ever feeling surly, find or fix a Green Machine, and put her into a spin. That’ll cure you. That is, if you can fit on it.
Otherwise, pass it on to a ‘tween like me and make their dream come true.
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