Children

The Bike Diaries

by Brother Carlton 
12/23/24
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When I was seven years old, I got my first bicycle. It wasn’t just a bike—it was freedom, a chance to explore the world beyond the sidewalks in front of my great-grandmother’s house. It had a white banana seat and gleamed in a gold color that felt almost regal to me. I was proud of that bike, and I couldn’t wait to show it off.

There’s a picture of me sitting on it, with my mother standing beside me. I had a pair of sunglasses on, looking every bit the cool kid, as we stood across the street from Aunt LaFawn and Uncle Jack’s house. Behind me in the photo, you can see Bessie Drennan’s place. I don’t remember much about that specific day, but I do remember how proud I was of that bicycle. It wasn’t just a toy—it was a symbol of independence, a way to go farther and faster than I ever had before.

Riding that bike gave me a sense of control in a world that often felt unpredictable. It was just me, the pedals, and the wind in my face. Those were the moments I felt free, like I could go anywhere. Looking back now, it wasn’t just a bike—it was a gift that gave me something more valuable: a sense of adventure and the confidence to move forward, even if it was just one block at a time.

 That gold-colored bicycle with the white banana seat wasn’t just a mode of transportation—it was a ticket to adventure. As soon as I could, I took it to the canal down the street off Cherokee Road.

There, a group of us boys would meet up and ride to a spot we called the Flying Hills. It was every kid’s dream—a steep hill that dropped down fast, followed by a hump and another sharp curve. The challenge was not just making it down the hill but having enough momentum and energy to climb back up to the top without stopping.

I wasn’t the biggest or the strongest kid in the group, but I had something the others noticed—determination. Even at seven or eight years old, I refused to give up. Every ride down the hill felt like a thrill, my heart racing as I flew over the hump and pedaled hard to make it back up. The other boys were daredevils, laughing and egging each other on, and I loved being a part of it. For those moments, it didn’t matter how small I was; I felt just as capable as any of them.

But the bike wasn’t just for daytime adventures. One evening, after the sun had gone down, I found myself riding along Wilson Way. It was late—probably too late for an eight-year-old to be out alone—but I didn’t think much of it. As I pedaled toward home, a police officer pulled me over. I didn’t have a light on my bike, and that wasn’t something they took lightly.

I can’t remember all the details, but I think he made me walk my bike most of the way home. At some point, he might have helped by putting the bike in the trunk of his car, though it’s all a little fuzzy now. What I do remember is how far I had to go—about a mile—and the weight of the lesson. It wasn’t just about the bike or the light; it was about realizing that even a little freedom came with responsibilities.

That bike gave me more than just excitement and independence. It taught me lessons about persistence, daring to take risks, and learning from the occasional scrape or scolding along the way. Even now, I can see myself at the top of Flying Hills, gripping the handlebars, ready to take on the next challenge.

 The canal near Cherokee Road wasn’t just a place for bike rides; it was a gateway to even more adventures. Not far from the canal, railroad tracks stretched endlessly in either direction, and for a boy like me, they seemed to hold endless possibilities. I spent countless afternoons there with a group of neighborhood boys, our imaginations running wild as we turned those tracks into our playground.

One of our favorite things to do was gather small rocks—nothing big enough to cause any real trouble, just little stones we could find nearby. We’d place them carefully on the tracks, then step back to a safe distance, watching and waiting for the train to come rumbling down the line.

When the train finally arrived, the ground would vibrate beneath our feet, and the sound of the wheels grinding against the tracks would fill the air. As the train passed over our carefully placed rocks, they’d explode into powder, pulverized by the sheer power of the massive steel wheels. We’d cheer like we’d just witnessed something spectacular, even though we were just kids playing with stones.

We knew the rocks weren’t big enough to cause any harm to the train—there was no danger of derailing it—but we were fascinated by the power it took to crush them into dust. It was thrilling in a way only kids could understand: watching something so small be obliterated by something so massive and unstoppable.

Those afternoons by the tracks were simple, yet full of wonder. They were a reminder of how much joy kids can find in the simplest things—a pile of rocks, a train, and a little bit of daring. Even now, when I think about those moments, I can hear the distant whistle of the train and feel the thrill of being a boy with no limits, just the freedom to explore and dream.

Brother Carlton ministers the gospel to the Los Angeles area. Formerly a Hollywood actor (SAG member) and property cleanup expert, he now spends most of his time studying the scriptures, writing articles, hymns, and poems, and doing street preaching. See all his videos on YouTube Brother Carlton.