I wasn't born yesterday. The photo says March 4.
About 7 PM on a Thursday in April, 1965, I was pedaling up a 10% grade 1,000 feet long on a 3-speed. Most riders got off and pushed. Some could do it in low. This time, I got impatient, shifted to high, stood, pulled up hard on the bars, and accelerated like a rocket until the chain let go. I'd torn the teeth off the rear sprocket.
At 8:12 the next morning, a tantalizing 17-year-old confronted me to say she hoped to ride with me the next morning, Saturday. I pulled my sprocket out of my pants, let her examine it, and explained that it wasn't currently up to the job, but in another 24 hours, I hoped to be hot to trot. With a peculiar lack of a pause, she offered to provide a Schwinn 10-speed.
That brought to mind Richard Lovelace's 1649 poem, "On Going to the Wars." "I could not love thee, Dear, so much, loved I not honour more." I wanted badly to provide the service she requested, but riding a Schwinn would have left me without honour. I told her I'd try to get my machine ready in time.
I found no wear on the chain ring, so I replaced only the rear sprocket. The chain fit the new sprocket perfectly. She wasn't at our tryst. Monday, she said she'd changed her mind. So it was all a conspiracy to get photos of me on a Schwinn. I wondered if Captain Kangaroo was behind it.
Did you find wear on your chain ring?