Twelve Miles to Cool

Before we chased girls, we chased the wind.

Before the Ten-Speeds, Before the Tastee-Freez

We started small—barefoot, sunburned, and fearless on our 20-inch banana-seaters. This was a few summers before Riverview Pool, before baby oil goddesses, before freedom came in twelve-mile stretches of hot Oklahoma asphalt. But the spark? It was already there.

The summer before I could drive, Dennis and I discovered freedom on two skinny tires. We weren’t old enough for dates or drivers' licenses, but we had road bikes, strong legs, and a pool twelve miles away. That was all we needed.

The Route to Riverview

We left from Pearl Street in Picher and aimed our handlebars toward Miami, Oklahoma—twelve hot, hopeful miles away. From A Street to Connell, down the long stretch of US 69, and finally the blessed turnoff onto Route 66. Through Commerce. Past the cemetery. Into the heart of town.

We could do it with our eyes closed. We probably did, at least once.

We weren’t just heading for water—we were heading for wonder. Riverview Park Pool had a springboard and a high dive. The kind of launchpad that made a boy believe he could fly. Or at least impress the girls who watched from the deep end.

Enter: The Goddesses

That’s where we first saw them.

Tina and Sherry. Glossed in baby oil and iodine, sunglasses tilted just so. Queens of the chlorine kingdom. Did they notice us? We weren’t sure. But we noticed them—every single day.

So, like idiots with cutoff shorts and bravado, we climbed the high dive and leapt like legends.

Each cannonball and belly flop was a hope shot. A declaration. A silent scream: Look at us!

They never waved. Never spoke.

But years later, they told us they saw everything.

Said we were cute.

Said we were harmless.

Said we were total Chat Rats.

We took it as a compliment.

Cool Water, Hot Asphalt

We swam until our fingers shriveled and our lungs hurt. Then we dried off, hopped back on those bikes, and pedaled home with thighs on fire and faces to the wind.

If we had a few coins left, we’d stop at the Tastee-Freez on Steve Owens Boulevard. Ice cream cones and big dreams. Our own little Pink Houses moment before John Cougar even made it famous.

By the end of that summer, we had thighs like Earl Campbell and tans like George Hamilton.

But we were still single.

The Ride Was the Romance

We didn’t ride for the girls, though. Not really.

We rode for freedom. For the ache and the burn. For the splash of cold water and the way our stories always sounded better on the ride home.

Somewhere between the dips and dives, the gravel and sunburns, something clicked.

The Gorilla in us grinned.

We were half-grown, sun-fried, and hungry for the next dare.

The Porch Was Always the Finish Line

No matter how far we rode, we always longed to see Pearl Street.

We thought we were chasing cool.

But we were just riding home.

Tell Me About the Ride That Made You Feel Free

Ever pedaled like your life depended on it? Rode twelve miles for a swim—or for a smile? I want to hear about your ride to cool. The one that made you feel untouchable, unstoppable, or just plain alive.

Drop your best two-wheeled tale at facebook.com/RealChatRat.

Bonus points if it includes a banana seat, sunburned shoulders, or a girl you thought was watching.