Week Twenty-Five: February 15th

If you are anything like me, and let's hope for your sake that you are not, you shot out of bed on Saturday mornings and digested as many consecutive hours of cartoons as you could. Sometimes I arose too early and saw nothing but repeat programming and shows that seemed to play a day too early: hello 700 Club! If I was only slightly early, I would catch the Captain, Kangaroo, that is, or, in later years some repeats of Painting with Bob Ross. Anyone unfamiliar with that stroke of television brilliance, in other words anyone outside of a certain range within New England, knows nothing of happy little clouds, soothing voices, Alizarin Crimson and amazing white-fros. If ever I had the coif-capabilities....

On those long Saturdays, full of animated mayhem, would occasionally appear a show that pre-dated any glorified reality garage shows of the current time period. It was called "Choppers," and was the Easy Rider of cartoons: nothing more than souped-up motorcycles (with faces and voices, of course) cruising around from place to place, having adventures.

Sure, it was no different from so many other cartoons of the day. If all stories since Shakespeare have been accused of borrowing his storylines--something of which he is also accused--then all cartoons of my youth followed the same formula. Not only from episode to episode but between shows! Space Ghost, Captain Caveman, Scooby Doo, and many, many more, all followed the same structure: one hero, however inept, surrounded by a crew of competent, or incompetent, others. They solve mysteries, problems, dilemmas, in-fighting, disagreements and whatever other name you can derive for the "serious" problems of the time.

Choppers was certainly no exception. They had a central hero, but downplayed his role as they tried to promote the importance of the free-ranging, countryside-roaming group dynamic. Regardless of their special skill, and we of that age learned well that each member of a group brought a certain special skill--one that no one else could possibly contribute--all members worked together to solve the problem and save the day, make the county fair happen, rescue the missing kids, uncover the hidden treasure and, especially, defraud the mystery of the ghost town.

All I knew was I would own a motorcycle like that when I was older. When I reached a certain age, and cartoons were no longer cool (or at least we would not freely advertise our continuing admiration for the genre) I turned my attention to the only "bikes" I would ever ride. Despite my numerous attempts to learn to ride a bike, it was a skill that took me years (and many tears) to master. My friends could ride bikes before they entered Kindergarten, in the manner of so many coordinated boys, but my banana-seated, stiff-wheeled, orange-flagged bicycle would not yield to my unbalanced demands.

At one point, when I had all but given up hope that I would learn to ride any bike, I spied a kid in my neighborhood with a Chopper-style bike. I never said a word to anyone, knowing this might advertise my continuing allegiance to the show, but damn it, I KNEW if I had that bike, I would learn to ride with ease.