When I was a kid, I had a friend in the neighborhood who was riding a bicycle without a seat (or saddle for you purists.) Richard was a year or two older than me and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he may really not have been aware of the danger that naked seatpost posed to his privates. Just one slip off a pedal and . . .
My dad, on the other hand, did get it, and the thought horrified him. "I'm afraid that kid's going to ruin himself," he said. So he went and bought a seat from the Salvation Army store (his favorite "scrounging" haunt) and put it on Richard's bike.
Flash forward forty years to this past weekend. I'm walking the dogs, about a half mile from my house, and a kid of 7 or 8 rides by. He must have thought he'd startled either the dogs or me, because he said "sorry." That's when I noticed he was riding without a seat.
By the time I got back to the house I knew it was going to bother me the rest of the weekend if I didn't put a seat on that kid's bike. Fortunately I have some lying around, so I grabbed one, a couple of wrenches, and my floor pump (I'd also noticed he was riding with flat tires), stuffed everything in a backpack and rode over to what I was pretty sure was the correct apartment duplex.
Sure enough the bike was on the grass out in front. I wrang the doorbell and the kid appeared at the door. He obviously didn't recognize me and wasn't going to open up, until I reached into the pack and pulled out the saddle while pointing at the bike.
It turned out to be his older brother's bike. I want ahead and installed the seat, watched by several siblings from the front stoop and a second story window. Aired up the tires and older brother took it for a spin. "Is that better?" I asked. "Yeah and a lot faster too," he said. "Thanks!"
I made a point of telling my dad the story on the phone the next day.