Column: Peddling Shelbyville to the next level in 1939

During the latest polar vortex, when I wasn’t busy writing letters to Sam Walton, I found myself rummaging through a shoebox of old column ideas.

This shoebox, once home to a pair of wingtips purchased 40 years ago at Hub Shoes from Ben Michael, has become a repository of half-formed thoughts and forgotten inspirations. When I began writing this column over 30 years ago, I started tucking away notes and ideas into this humble box, a ritual as comforting as the creak of an old rocking chair.

I don’t remember what happened to the wingtips. They vanished with the last shoe repair shop in town, a casualty of progress and changing times.

Among the yellowed notes and scribbled fragments, I stumbled upon notes from a conversation I had long ago with Herbert Lewis, an old-timer with a story that seemed to shimmer with the golden hue of nostalgia. I don’t know if Mr. Lewis or any of his friends are still among the living. If so, I hope this column brings back fond memories of their youth.

Mr. Peabody please have your boy Sherman set the Wayback Machine to 1939.  Let’s step into the world of Herbert and his friends, a world where one summer they took bicycle riding to the “next level.” 

Herbert Lewis and his pals were boys growing up in Shelbyville during the 1930s, a time when the Great Depression cast a long shadow over the nation. Yet, even in the face of economic hardship, the human spirit has a peculiar way of finding joy in the simplest of things.

Without the distractions of television or computer games, these boys turned to their imaginations and the world around them for entertainment. Dance marathons, flagpole sitting, and six-day bicycle races were the endurance competitions of the day, a testament to a nation’s resilience and its hunger for spectacle.

Herbert and his friend, Ralph Coleman, had ridden their bicycles to Franklin, where they encountered a group of boys taking turns riding a single bicycle 24 hours a day. Inspired by this feat, Herbert returned to Shelbyville with a spark of an idea. Why not assemble a team and see how long they could keep a bicycle in motion?

It was a challenge that would test their endurance, their camaraderie, and their ability to outlast the monotony of endless pedaling.

The headquarters for this grand adventure was Herbert’s home at 302 W. Mechanic St. The team consisted of Herbert, Jim Vauble, Maurice Brokering, and George Larimore. Herbert, Maurice, and George were high school seniors, while Jim was a junior.

They began their marathon in July, riding in two-hour shifts, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The bicycle, a Schwinn, became their shared companion, its wheels spinning relentlessly through the heat of summer days and the cool stillness of nights.

As the sun blazed and the stars winked, their marathon became a local sensation. Neighbors gathered to cheer them on, and curious onlookers marveled at their determination. The boys pedaled through scorching afternoons and dew-kissed mornings, their legs moving in a rhythm as steady as the ticking of a clock.

The bicycle became a symbol of their youthful exuberance, a machine that carried them not just across miles but through the fabric of time itself.

The marathon continued unabated until Labor Day, when the ironclad rules of the school year forced them to dismount. By then, the odometer on the Schwinn revealed an astonishing 11,780 miles.

One math challenged neighbor calculated the distance to be equal to the moon and back. Their marathon was more than a feat of endurance; it was a testament to the power of community, the resilience of youth, and the enduring spirit of a town that refused to be defined by hardship.

Little did they know that they had taken Shelbyville to the “next level” 86 years before it would become the official motto. 

See you all next week, same Schwinn time, same Schwinn channel.