Riding a bike: This seemingly simple task is often learned at a young age. Very rarely does anyone’s first attempt go smoothly. Most people just forget to brake or get a few bumps and bruises, nothing too drastic. So this form of exercise is viewed by most as completely harmless and is enjoyed by all ages. I, however, do not ride these dangerous contraptions. My first experience was none too enjoyable, and many tries after that were also rather rotten. I gave up after a horrible incident involving gravel, bloody knees, bones, and hydrogen peroxide. Few realize the danger these “toys” posses, so I shall attempt to enlighten those clouded by misconception. Therefore, let us begin at the beginning with the first attempt.

When my dad decided to teach me how to ride a two-wheeler without training wheels, I was around five years old. The bike was a vivid pink, like the color of bubblegum, with iridescent pink and white pompoms hanging off the handle bars. It also had a basket on the front, which was often used to tote Pooh Bear around, and a hot pink seat, which will have an important role in this tale of tragedy.

We were living in Alaska at the time, and it was fall. Because the days were getting shorter, the air was musty, and it was just cool enough to need a light jacket. Our driveway, a brown, dirty path in the shape of a u, connected to the street, Victoria Circle, which was also a u, and never seemed to have very many cars on it. Clutching a glass of water, standing out in the street, was my father. I was balancing on the bike at the top of our driveway. The driveway had a slight slant to it, so when I say at the top, I mean right in front of our red garage, the highest point of the slope.

The helmet I was wearing was hot pink. It was covered in stickers. At the front were stickers depicting pandas lying around or eating bamboo. They were Mommy’s favorite animals, after all. My dad waved and yelled that it was okay to start now. There were no cars coming, and I didn’t need to worry. He also said to stay close by him, something I distinctly remember since I had been taught to follow directions exactly. Since I took it too literally, this phrase caused plenty of problems.

Pushing off down the hill, my stomach imitated that funny feeling I always experienced on airplanes. I thought that, maybe, it was possible to fly without wings made of metal, without smelly engines, without seat belts that pinned me down. Before I could completely grasp this enticing idea, I was out in the street and began to follow Dad around. “Don’t hit me…Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me!” My dad started shouting and prancing around in circles, his glass of water sloshing around. He hollered at me to stop trying to run him over, but I was just behaving like he told me to. I didn’t understand. I was going too fast, and when my dad sprinted to the right, it dawned on me that I didn’t have room to turn, and I flew into the ditch.

Now, unfortunately, this part of the ditch was pretty deep. As I started bouncing my way down, I hoped that maybe I would stop. But of course, I had no such luck. Without seeming to slow down at all, I crashed into a pine tree. Bones clanging, I jerked to a stop, my head flicking forward, chin to my chest, then indescribable pain between my legs.

I started crying. My dad came running over and picked me up, checking for broken bones and such. Then we realized what had hurt so much. The stupid seat had busted completely off, causing me to land, with incredible force, on the bar beneath. I never even thought something like this could happen, whoever heard of a bike seat popping off? But it did, and that wasn’t the last time either.

At least twice more after that the seat fell off. One time it was because I heard a bee buzzing by me, and I felt something in my ear. So, logically, I assumed that the bee must be in my ear and began screaming and clawing at my head accordingly. Upon realizing too late that I had I had released the handle bars, I muttered to myself, “Oh no. Not again!” and proceeded to smash into one of the many trees located in our yard.

The gears of my bike always seemed to be starving, since they devoured everything I wore. My wind breaker was always tied around my waist, and I can recall at least three times it caught in the gears thus causing the bike to stop short, and me to topple over. Pant legs and shoelaces are another example of the monster’s favorite delicacies, consequently resulting in grease marks all over my clothing and giving me lovely bruises. Despite how often experiences like this occurred to me due to my carelessness, I never seemed to get the hang of paying attention or tried to prevent the mishaps. Luckily, the price I had to pay for being stupid was never anything more than some cuts, bloody knees, torn clothes, and green bruises. However, I would soon come to realize that the worst was yet to come.

The incident that made me give up on riding bikes occurred in the fifth or sixth grade, after we had moved to Oregon. We were living with my grandparents on a cul-de-sac, which is like a dead end street with a rounded tip, for those of you who may not already know this. My two brothers and I were zipping around on the cul-de-sac.

Now, I was used to racing on dirt, swerving around obstacles, speeding on twisting paths, a kind of mountain terrain. This street had gravel on it. I had never ridden on gravel before, so the thought never even entered my mind that perhaps, the action of turning would produce very different results than when compared to maneuvering on dirt. Soon, though, I learned a valuable lesson. Gravel skids.

Going as fast as possible, I made a sharp turn, imitating a move I had done so many times previously, only this time, on gravel. It all happened within a matter of seconds, but in my mind it was incredibly slow, allowing me to see my mistake and ponder over the inevitable result. The gravel had caused the wheels to stop spinning and just skid. The bike was tilting at an alarming angle, resembling a motorcycle speed racer. For a crazy moment, I thought I might be able to correct my mistake, butt he wheels weren’t even below me anymore.

“Oh my gosh, I’m going to fall. I’m going to fall!” I panicked a little as the ground rushed up to meet my head, and I dismally hoped, “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

Then, I slammed into the ground, which wouldn’t have been too bad if I hadn’t skidded for a few feet. I lay sprawled out on the ground, all tangled up in the bike, with a huge skid mark behind me. The wind had been crushed from my lungs and my mind was blank, for a time anyway. Momentarily, amidst shrieks and gasps for air, huge, salty tears streamed down my contorted face. As the sobs continued to rack my body, I tried to push the heavy creature off me, but it felt as though all the energy had been drained from my body, so I staid still. Tilting my head to look at my legs, I discovered that tiny pebbles do a wonderful job of tearing flesh.

My mom began to yell at me to stop crying. Dad strided over and lifted the bike off me, and without uttering a single word, picked me up. I clung to his shirt, my head buried in his chest, attempting to disappear as my mom began to shriek like someone possessed.

“Oh my God! You’re carrying her?! Put her down, she’s just doing it for attention! Quit acting like such a baby! You do this all the time, you’re such a hypochondriac!” My mom screamed from the front yard.

In order to please her, I bit my lip so that the shrieks would come to an end but tears still poured down my dirt-streaked face.

Silently, my dad spun me around so she could gawk at my leg. Instantaneously her mood changed. Imbetween gagging and pushing me away she was crying and trying to hug me. She’s never been very good around blood, and she was having a difficult time staring at the bloody mess that was my knee.

I waited on a kitchen chair while my dad grabbed the hydrogen peroxide and some gauze. Glancing at my knee, I could see gravel ground into the tattered flesh, blood was everywhere, and a bumpy, grayish thing, my bone, was visible. This wreck was the worst one ever, to be sure.

That day the house was full of tears and screams of pain. Cleaning deep wounds is not pleasant, but is necessary, and it cannot always be done alone.

I probably should have gotten stitches, but never did. Since then I haven’t actually ridden any bicycles. Now just looking at the huge scars on my knees reminds me of the horrible stench of hydrogen peroxide, the painful tug one feels when gauze is being pulled from oozing wounds, and the shame I felt from my mother thinking it was all an act.

As a result of my knees being ripped open so many times, just sliding into home plate causes the skin to break open again. I most likely will never get on a bike again, and if I have children, I won’t force them to learn how.

Grandpa claims that all of this occurred because I’m selfish, I only cared about going as fast as possible. Perhaps I am, but, then again, who doesn’t wish that they might be able to fly, if only they could just pedal fast enough.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 23.03.2010

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