Guest column: Life on The Avenue

By Boyd Lemon / Guest columnist

I agonized over what to write about in my first column for Amigos 805.  There are so many serious issues facing us: Osama Bin Laden, the economy, immigration, health care. There’s no end. The heck with all that, I thought.  I’m going to tell you about an amusing incident of life on The Avenue in Ventura.

I live just off The Avenue on El Medio Street. For those not familiar with The Avenue, I don’t know the history, but I think I can safely assume that the name comes from its official name, Ventura Avenue.

It is an eclectic, diverse working-class neighborhood. As a European American, for the first time in my life, I am living where I’m a minority. Most of my neighbors are Mexican Americans. I thought I might feel uneasy as a minority, but I don’t. I love the food at the local Mexican restaurants and grocery stores, the festival ambiance — especially on weekends — lacking in Anglo dominated neighborhoods; and my neighbors have been kind and friendly, more so than in other places I have lived.  Perhaps, having lived in Europe for the past year, I’m more adaptable and feel at ease with people of different ethnicity and backgrounds.  I take to heart the truth that, “To exclude makes you poorer; to include makes you richer.”

When I moved to The Avenue a couple of months ago, I decided to live without owning a car, almost blasphemy in Southern California. I had a dual purpose of wanting to save money and to live the last third of my adult life imposing a smaller carbon footprint on the earth. I noticed a lot of my neighbors got around on bicycles, so I decided to buy one. They get you around a little faster than walking, provide good exercise and can be equipped with a basket for carrying groceries. Riding a bike creates more of a feeling of recreation, not just getting from one place to another.

A used one would serve my purposes, but I found that those at thrift stores all needed work to be ridden, and I knew that wouldn’t be economical. I decided to keep looking until I found one that didn’t need repairs.

The day after I made the decision to wait until the right bicycle for me was for sale, I looked again at the nearest thrift store on The Avenue and found nothing suitable. I strolled down The Avenue toward the beach. It was a sparkling Spring day, a slight breeze coming off the ocean to rustle the hairs on my arms.  I picked up my pace to warm me.

Suddenly, behind me, I heard a woman scream. I turned around and saw a woman lying on the sidewalk with a bicycle partially on top of her. I rushed back to help her. She was cussing like an angry rapper as I pulled the bicycle off her and gave her my hand. Her dark face had turned red with anger.

She ignored her bloody knee below her blue shorts and continued her diatribe, but in language more suitable for this publication.

“I hate this thing! I hate it!  I hate it! I hate it! My husband bought it for me.  He loves to ride, but I just can’t get the hang of it. I’d rather walk. I’m never riding the damned thing again.”

Clearly, she wasn’t badly hurt, just a skinned knee and injured pride. “Are you all right?  I asked.

“Yeah, yeah.  Thanks,” she said, a little calmer. “I just can’t ride a bike.  What can I say?”

The bike was a small Huffy cruiser with fat tires and upright handle bars, just what I wanted. “Well,” I said, seizing the moment. “Would you like to sell it?  I’ll buy it from you.”

“Yeah, I’ll sell it to you,” she said.

“How much do you want for it?”

“Fifty dollars.”

It was purple. Oh well. I felt the tires. I squeezed the break handles, got on and rode around a bit. Everything worked. There was just a little rust on the rims, but the chain and gears were well oiled. By this time a group of people had gathered to watch, among them her husband. She introduced him to me and told him of my interest in the bike. We shook hands.

“Go for it,” he said. “She hardly ever rides it.”

I turned to her. “I’ll give you forty.”

“I’ll take forty,” she said, without even a glance at her husband.

“It’s a deal,” I said, pulling my wallet from my back pocket, taking out two twenties and handing them to her.

She put the money in her pocket. She and her husband waived goodbye and walked away.

I road my new bike to the beach.

— Boyd Lemon is a retired lawyer, who re-invented himself as a writer, living in Ventura. He just returned from a year in France and Italy. His memoir, “Digging Deep: A Writer Uncovers His Marriages,” has just been published. It is about his journey to understand his role in the destruction of his three marriages. He believes it will help others to deal with their own relationship issues. Excerpts are on his website, http://www.BoydLemon-Writer.com