San Jose is flat. It is quite flat, especially in comparison to the rolling hills and dales of most of the Bay Area. But, I’m learning what words like “valley” and “canyon” actually mean in a land where elevation is more than just the slightly over sea-level grade of much of New England.

It’s flatness is incredibly appealing to my slow, low-slung, non-athletic self, and I have been yearning to get a bike.

At the same time, I wander streets that have a disturbing familiarity to me. Disturbing, because they are a life-size reminder of my serious, fucking never missed an episode, “Brady Bunch” addiction. (Maybe not as disturbing as my friend Deb’s family, who collectively rule in B. Bunch trivia.)

At any rate, Friday nights when the streetlights came on, you would pedal home, ditch the bike on the driveway and make sure you had eaten, adequately washed and put on your PJs to settle in unmolested for the show of shows. (In my case, as the youngest of five, four of whom never succumbed to the Brady aura, in the days before multiple TVs in multiple rooms (and certainly not a large color version), the “unmolested” part was no mean feat.)

Just for an idea on the California ranch look I’m now dwelling within, here’s a screenshot of the Brady’s manse:
. (Note: They put on a fake front window to make the actual split-level ranch (i.e. single story) house look like two stories.)

Here’s my front door:

Not identical, but I think similar enough.

Anyway, so at any age from like 5-10 years old, when the Brady’s ruled Friday nights, I was at the Morrissey’s playing with the “little ones.” (The Morrissey’s ultimately had 12 kids (I think), but it might have been 11 or even 13.)

When there were 10 kids, they were spoken of in subsets with the younger cluster of girls all around my age (before Kerry, who was their “little one”). At various times, I was a member in good standing of the hen partyish evil of both little girl groups led by the slightly older Debbie and the slightly less mature but chronologically equal (or the same grade anyway) Chris. The Morrisseys were the real-life perfect family of patient and understanding non-dysfunction (or so I imagined) I envied beside the TV Bradys.

And, I envied their bikes.

(I should backtrack a bit to explain that the “little ones,” aka “the girls” were lithe and petite and were, in fact, the epitome of tiny, adorable girlness. In other words, they were gymnasts. At least once a week, they even took private gymnastic lessons, as did my big sister.

I, on the other hand, was a behemoth. Slow and massive. At 9 years old, I pretty much peaked at what would be my grown-up height of 5’3″. My weight has always been proportional, and it has never been slight.)

As a big girl, I had a big girl bike suitable to my massive (relatively speaking) girth. For a while, that meant a pink, three-speed Huffy ladies touring bike. It died prematurely left unwisely in a friend’s driveway and crunched by the family beachwagon.

Later I had a very reliable, forest green Raleigh.

Touring bikes, especially ones with speeds before mountain bikes were invented, were fine equipment. Cool and cute they were not, however.

The little girls, the cute tiny Barbie-collecting gymnast types, they had the wonderful cute bikes of the day, Stingrays. Stingrays with banana seats, swaying sissy bars and tassles flying in the breeze from the grips of their ape-grip handlebars.

The cool boys had the green, macho Stingrays. The cute girls, their future suburban wives perhaps, had the pink, glittery ones.

So, today, at 41, sadly, I imagine, I’ve been looking at these bikes:

No doubt, I will ultimately buy something with 27 speeds that is light and flexible enough for M. and me to throw on a rack and roll around Napa or over the Golden Gate or something.

But, for a little while at least, I’m waxing nostalgic for a bike I never owned.