Bikes and Birthdays

Some days are just perfect. My 16th birthday was one of them.

In the fall of 1971, I got to accompany my parents on a business trip to Europe. My father, an orthopedic surgeon, was traveling to England and Switzerland to learn a new method for total hip replacement that employed a special glue to keep the bolts from working loose (probably enough information right there). He was planning to study and practice the procedure first in England, at a tiny town called Charnock Richard (near Manchester), then in Norwich. The third hospital was across the Channel in Bern, Switzerland. Of course, it meant my being out of school for two weeks in my Junior year, but I was willing to make the sacrifice.

I went along for the culture and the chance to practice my French in Paris, a scheduled side trip. I also made it my mission to return from overseas with a new bike, not so much for the anticipated savings, but for the cachet of a European marque. I spent as much time as I could scouting for a new bicycle to buy, having saved up a considerable (for me, at least) stake. But bicycle shops can be deceptively hard to find in Switzerland when you don’t know the area, not to mention the language. By the time we got to Paris, I was still bike-less.

Fortunately, I spoke pretty fluent French, so I was able to navigate the yellow pages easily and located a dealer not too far from our hotel. Setting out on my birthday, we all took the Metro and arrived at the Cycles Lejeune dealership. Now, I had never heard of Lejeune bicycles, but that didn’t matter so much back then. A racing frame was a racing frame, and this one looked pretty sharp. I had some extra money left over, so I asked the proprietor to upgrade the derailleurs to the Holy Grail of components: Campagnolo. While he worked on the bike, the three of us went out for a late lunch, with my mother taking a taxi back to the hotel afterward.

My father and I returned to the shop, where the new bike was already wrapped in a cardboard box, ready to be shipped. The packing was a little awkward, with the curved handlebars sticking out, but we ventured down into the Metro with my unwieldy purchase. Taking a bicycle onto the Metro during rush hour is probably not the wisest thing I’ve ever done, and we got some distinctly Parisian looks from fellow passengers as we tried to make room for more commuters piling on. My dad and I joked about how funny it would be if we actually caught someone with the handlebars and, wouldn’t you know it, we did.

Back at the hotel, I kept taking frustrating peeks at the bike in the box. I wanted to take it out and admire it, but that would have to wait until we got back to the States. Besides, it was time to go out for my birthday dinner. We had asked the concierge for a good recommendation for a restaurant serving Duck with Orange Sauce, a favorite of mine, and he suggested Chez Pauline, where his cousin was the maitre d’. Though not on the menu, the chef created my Caneton a l’Orange and followed it up with an Ile Flottante, which is meringues floating on a sea of milky custard sauce. Something new to me and delicious. My parents gave me a couple of small gifts and card with the miraculous message, “The bike has been paid for.” That’s the kind of birthday greeting I like.

As good as it had been so far, my birthday was far from over. After dessert, we jumped in a taxi and were soon at the Folies Bergere. Inside was all red velvet and brass, as we were shown to our plush seats. Even the program was covered in black velvet. The show was like something I’d never seen before. It was really a burlesque, mixing some dance, some broad comedy (of which I caught very little) and numerous Vegas-style acts featuring very attractive but otherwise expressionless topless showgirls parading around in bejeweled costumes. Probably too many naked breasts for my 16-year old brain to process, but it was exciting nonetheless to be at such an icon of French culture. And so impossibly grown-up. By the time we returned to our room I was completely spent, after such a long day.

Actually, there’s not much else to say. No pithy denouement. No moral. Just a wonderful birthday, made possible by wonderful parents.

If it sounds like I’m bragging, well, yes, I am. Absolument.