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Wild Bill's Great Bike Giveaway Mail Tribune photo by Bob Pennell William "Wild Bill" Marcum stands in the "recycling yard" behind his house. He says the scrap iron he collects fetches only a couple dollars a truckload, but moving it to the scrap yard keeps him in shape. One-man recycling agency By J.T. BUSHNELL William "Wild Bill" Marcum, 80, called the Mail Tribune on Thursday with a great idea for a story: himself. He declared that he was giving away bicycles he had obtained from the Salvation Army. Matter of fact, he said he had 15 out in front right now. He was doing a good thing, he said, and he should have a snapshot in the paper. After he lunched at St. Vincent de Paul with his wife, Wild Bill met a reporter in front of his house with a toothless smile and extended hand. After a quick hello he became solemn and pointed to the curb in front of his house. "We had 200 bikes right here," he announced grimly. Two-hundred? "Christmas," he whispered, raising a finger and pausing to emphasize the sly insight. The whisper promptly disappeared. "Christmas. We had them all lined up out here, 200 of them, and people came and took them, and none but a few people sent us some letters back, nice letters, and I got but I can't find it I got a letter from Tanzania." Tanzania? "Yeah, that's right. The priest he came and picked up some of the bikes and sent them off to Tanzania, and they sent me a letter." He took a quick breath and raised both arms, sweeping them across his view of the neighborhood. "You can ask any of these folks out here, and they'll tell you: I had 200 bikes here, all lined up." During a short tour of his modest J Street home, he points out his lovely wife and three-legged dog. Heading to the back of the house he proudly proclaims that this section of the home sits at 4211/2 J St. "One-half," he explained, slicing the air with the same insightful finger. "This part is the one-half." Behind the house, Wild Bill has what he calls a recycling yard: old file cabinets, bike wheels, snow shovels, blenders, microwaves and shopping carts line narrow walkways. Just outside the yard, a heap of bikes circled a telephone pole underneath a handmade sign that said "free." Wild Bill said he amassed all the items from the Salvation Army and a local hospital, where his wife works as a baby-rocker. Wild Bill said he does volunteer work at the Salvation Army. He strips most items down and sells the metal to Schnitzer Steel Co. in White City. And he has the receipts to prove it. "This here is for a whole trailer full of scrap iron," he said, fishing a pink sheet of paper out of his pocket and pointing to the amount he was paid: $1.75. "I get nothing for it!" he cried out, banging a fist on an old exercise machine. Then why do it? "Let me ask you a question: Do you want to die?" He let the question sink in, then became fervent. "Plenty of young people are dead and gone, because they sat and watched TV. They don't work! You watch TV, you die! Look at me - I'm 80 years old and I'm out here working every day, building my muscles!" He slapped his right biceps and spotted a woman sitting on the steps across the street. "Isn't that right? Right? Right?" he yelled at her in good nature. She waved and nodded. "You see, ask any of these people around here ... ." Wild Bill said he got his nickname for his loud voice and demeanor while working in the U.S. Forest Service years ago. "I'm very rough and tough," he remarked. He began cutting keys in Ashland about half a century ago and still sports a "Mr. Key" license plate on his red Jeep Cherokee. He moved to J Street 12 years ago. While explaining his past, he saw another neighbor across the street. "Hey guy!" he hollered. "Come over here and tell about me." The neighbor was Dan Hernandez. "He's the neighborhood," Hernandez said. "Without him, we wouldn't have a neighborhood. He's a real nice guy, a very good friend. He always says hello to everyone, even if they don't say anything back." Hearing this, Wild Bill broke into raucous laughter, his face beaming with appreciation. "Tell him I had 200 bikes out here last Christmas," Wild Bill broke in. "There are other witnesses around here, too, ask anyone." "Witnesses?" Hernandez said with a smile. "You're not on trial here, Bill." When the photographer arrived for Wild Bill's photo shot, he was greeted with another smile and extended hand. Wild Bill quickly led him to the pile of bicycles. "On Christmas," he reported proudly, "we had 250 of them." Reach reporter J.T. Bushnell at 776-4487. Mail Tribune Home | Ottaway Newspapers, Inc. | Dow Jones & Co., Inc. | Privacy | Contact Us Copyright � 2001 Mail Tribune, Inc.