Accidents

I remember the very first time I rode a bicycle: my six year-old second-best friend Jeff Wilcox held the rear rack of his green Huffy—a little kid’s bike with neither freewheel nor brakes—and pushed while I gained balance.  I held my legs wide so the cranks could spin freely.  He gave a final shove and let go, and suddenly, I was riding on my own.  Joyfully, I looked up and, in doing so, turned the handlebars slightly, guiding the bike off our neighbor’s flat driveway and down the embankment that led to our house.  I recall trying unsuccessfully to place my feet on the pedals as they whipped around before slamming into the gutter downspout on the corner of our red brick house.  I tumbled to the grass.  Jeff appeared at my side, apologizing for letting me go so quickly.  I stood up, retrieved the bicycle, and asked if we could try it again.

Since that first crash, I’ve tried to avoid spills, but even the ones I’ve had haven’t powerfully dissuaded me from riding.

There was that time in 10th grade, commuting home from school with my friend Michael.  We were probably stoned.  He began to ride by me going up the final hill to my house.  Half in jest, half in teenaged boy testosterone poisoning, I exclaimed, “Nobody passes me!” and turned my wheel into his.  The wingnut on his front dropout (this was before quick-release hubs) caught in my spokes and we both went down.  Some scrapes and scratches and a slightly out-of-true rim were the only casualties; we climbed back on our rigs, pedaled the last few blocks to my house and almost certainly got stoned, or more so.

Most recently, a couple years ago, I rode off a curb in a parking lot and face-planted onto the asphalt.  A cracked tooth and a fat lip for me, a bent handlebar for the Saluki.  We’re both better now and still riding.