Two Wheels & The Messiah

When you’re three years old, the world is mostly made of knee-high grass, asphalt that eats your shins, and adult decisions you have zero say in. But in the late 1970s—a glorious decade powered by polyester, questionable haircut decisions, and zero parental supervision—I stumbled into two life-altering discoveries: total physical freedom and the Messiah.

It all started in the paved common area of our Barbee Creek Apartments AKA "The Projects" in Miahwaka, a battleground of scuffed sneakers and rusted tricycles. My neighbor, a kid a few years older than me (we’ll call him Kevin), was undergoing the sacred suburban rite of passage: learning to ride a two-wheeler without training wheels.

His mother, Tonya, was running the operation. Tonya was a woman whose patience had a very visible fuse, and Kevin was lighting it down to the stump.

"Pedal, Kevin! Just pedal!"

CRASH.

Kevin hit the pavement like a sack of damp laundry. Tonya hauled him back up, brushed off the grit, loaded him onto the seat, and delivered a heroic shove.

CRASH.

Kevin didn't even try. He just accepted his fate and tipped sideways like a felled pine. Tonya was at her wit's end, exasperated by a son who seemed fundamentally opposed to forward momentum.

Standing on the sidelines in my toddler glory, I was mesmerized. My tiny brain was doing intense physics calculations based on1 year of high-octane tricycle experience. I was practically vibrating.

Tonya threw her hands up, looked down at me—a glorified baby hovering by the curb—and threw caution to the wind. "Alright, shorty. Your turn."

She hoisted me onto this giant, terrifying, metal contraption. I couldn't even dream of touching the ground. My feet barely met the pedals at the top of their arc. Tonya gave me a mighty push into the unknown.

And then... magic.

The tricycle muscle memory kicked in like a sleeper agent activating. I wasn't just balancing; I was flying. I pedaled like my life depended on it, leaving Kevin and his frustrated mother in a cloud of late-70s dust. I was three years old, wind in my hair, absolute monarch of the asphalt!

There was, however, one tiny design flaw in my maiden voyage: the landing strategy.

As the momentum started to die down, the grim reality hit me. I was far too small for this machine. There was no gentle coasting to a stop, no casual foot-down cool guy stance. Stopping required a full commitment to gravity. I simply rode until I slowed down, held my breath, and tipped completely over into the grass like a drunk lumberjack.

Worth it.

Eventually, I upgraded my ride strategy by commandeering my older sister’s bike. It was a step-through frame—no high top bar—which meant I could slide off the seat, hover in the open frame, and coast to a stop without having to crash-land into the shrubs every time. That bike was my ticket to ride, and bikes would go on to soundtrack every major adventure of my youth.

But the bicycle victory wasn't the only epic element of the neighborhood.

Tonya had a brother who lived just outside the apartment complex with their mom in a real house. He was a grown man with a flowing, glorious mane of hair—though, to be fair, in the late 70s, everyone looked like they were auditioning for a touring band or a biblical epic.

The neighborhood word on the street was simple: "Stay away from him. He's nuts."

Later in life, I’d learn the heavy reality—that he suffered from schizophrenia, a battle that tragically ended his life far too soon. But through the lens of my three-year-old childhood eyes, he wasn't scary at all. He was soft-spoken, incredibly kind, and had one very specific, unwavering core belief:

He was Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

While the adults whispered and the older kids kept their distance, my toddler brain gave him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, he had the hair. He had the gentle vibe. Who was I, a kid who couldn't even reach the pedals on a bicycle, to dispute divine revelation? In my mind, the Savior of Mankind just happened to reside right outside the Projects, hanging out near the sidewalk.

Looking back, my early childhood felt like a wildly written TV show.  It was a little crazy, a little messy, but looking through the rearview mirror? I would never trade those wild memories.