By Publisher Emeritus Jerry Robinson

Editor's note: Jerry Robinson, who passed away in 2014 would have been 100 years old today. He wrote this as part of his autobiography.

On my 10th birthday my big brother Russell bought me my first bike. April 6th, 1930. What a day. "C'mon, Gerald," he said. "Let's go up to Killingsworth Street."

"Okay," I answered, and we took off. "Where're we going?"

"You'll see." The most exciting place on Killingsworth Street was Darling's Bike Shop. Many times we had feasted our eyes on the row of shiny bikes in the window.

When we turned in there I nearly died. It smelled so good. Rubber-tired heaven.

Russell had already made the choice: a powder blue, 26 inch, balloon-tired baby with steerhorn handlebars. Absolutely the most gorgeous creation from the hand of man. The frame had been broken and brazed down by the sprocket, but I didn't mind.

I loved it. Russell gave Mr. Darling a ten-dollar bill and we pushed it out the door.

When we got outside I asked him where he got the money. "Out of Dad's dresser drawer," he confessed. We both knew it was wrong, but we guessed right--that Dad wouldn't know he had ten dollars when he went to bed the night before.

Russell taught me how to ride. After a few spills, I got the hang of it. It was a wonderful thing to do for a little brother, so I couldn't complain too much when he'd beat me up and take off on it. I kept that bike for three years, taking it back every few months to have the frame re-brazed. When I was thirteen Russell and I pooled our paper route monies and bought a brand new Royal Blue Schwinn World Bike with knee-action forks and red reflectors on the mud flaps. I wish I had it now, just so I could look at it.