More "12 FROGS" from my 2017 memoir–– a story –– a Black Savior comes to Mack & my rescue, as we ventured down Lake Michigan coast toward the Chicago Loop on our bikes.

(Excerpted from TWELVE DEAD FROGS AND OTHER STORIES, A Filmmaker’s Memoir, by Rick Schmidt ©2017).

BLACK SAVIOR (1955)

One day my friend Mack and I got the bright idea to ride our bikes all the way to downtown Chicago from our South Side district. The trip was about eight miles in total. So we made our way from my 49th street house toward the lower-numbered blocks, pedaling our bikes along Lake Michigan’s waterfront parks. At one point, our journey required that we lift our bikes over a short fence along Lake Shore Drive and frantically run through a tunnel, heaving our bikes back to safety on the other side. We had to get off the roadway before we were met by on-coming traffic (at 50+ miles per hour). For some reason this didn't seem like an impassable obstacle at the time. Of course if we had tripped or fallen at any point during our mad dash to the other end of the tunnel, we would have either been struck by a car or caused a massive traffic jam.

Traveling farther along Lake Michigan, we rode through the small parks that lay along the coast. Everything went smoothly until we entered an grassy area somewhere around 30th street. As I pedaled casually along I started to spot a few kids hiding behind trees. Then suddenly I heard a callout, and we were attacked by a gang of young black kids, who ran toward us from almost every direction. We were completely surrounded and outnumbered, and no matter how hard we pedaled we couldn't outrace the large net they cast. They blocked us on all sides, and we were brought to a halt.

At that point, the leader, a taller kid with a pockmarked face, demanded our money. And when we didn’t immediately cough it up, he hit my buddy Mack in the face to make his point. I watched Mack tumbled backwards over his bike and figured I was next. So I reached into my pocket, grabbed all the change my fingers could encircle – at least three dollar's worth in pennies, dimes, a few quarters – and threw it out in a fan, as far and wide as I could.

The attackers immediately left our side, fighting among themselves as they rummaged around, snatching up the coins. This was our big chance to escape. But Mack was having problems getting up from under his bike and I was worried he wouldn’t get himself ready to ride in time. Suddenly I heard a loud voice from about fifty feet off, yelling something like, “Stop!” I looked up just in time to see a young black man, maybe 19-20 years-old, approaching with an angry face.

“Hey, you kids!” he shouted, “Get away from there and stop bothering those white folks! ” The gang members hesitated until this bigger man jogged over, dispelling them in all directions.

“You two go home now,” he said to us, and as soon as Mack brushed himself off we began pedaling back toward 49th street without hesitation. I’m glad to recall this incident. That young man deserves a lot of credit, for making sure at least two South Side white kids didn’t become racists.

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