A Bicycle Story

As it so often happens, my husband and I discovered the fun of going on scenic bike rides with my brother and sister-in-law a bit late in the year.  This past Sunday was only the second time we got together for a ride this year and due to the early arrival of the rain, I doubt we'll get another opportunity until next year.

The experience of going on a long, leisurely bike ride with my brother has brought me full circle in my recreational biking.  I learned how to ride a bike embarrassingly late in life and it was my brother who took on the job of teaching me.  He is the oldest of my siblings, 11 years older than I, and I have always adored him.  You couldn't ask for a kinder big brother.  I was given a second-hand bike on my 10th birthday and why it took me so long to get and learn how to ride one, I can't tell you.  I wasn't known for my exceptional skills of coordination and perhaps that had something to do with it.

He taught me how to ride in the classic method; holding the bike and running alongside as I pedaled furiously.  When I turned to ask him how I was doing, it was only to find he'd let go of the bike some some back and, of course, I immediately fell off.  And so it went until I could start off, ride and stop on my own.  I recall that for some strange reason, whenever I stopped I would slide off the seat rather hard and hit the front of the bike between the handlebars.  For the longest time, I had an ongoing bruise in various stages of color in the area of my pubic bone.  Ouch!

In the short period between my birthday in the middle of August and the start of school in the beginning of September, I learned to ride well enough that I became over confident and, ultimately, too cocky.  One evening after an early dinner, I rode over to a nearby development with lots of lovely smooth roads and nice hills.  I got myself to the top of one and readied myself for the glorious descent.  Oh, I descended all right--right into the curb at the bottom of the hill after being tossed over the handlebars.

I remember gathering myself up and sitting on the curb for a while.  I knew I'd hurt myself because I could feel that stickiness that you just know without looking is blood.  Eventually I looked at my bike; it was totaled and as sad a looking sight as I'm sure I was.  The handlebars were twisted and the frame was bent; the bike was unridable.  I walked the sorry thing back to the house and I still remember distinctly the "pinging" sound of the broken spokes hitting against the wheel.  I got as far as the end of our driveway and just stood there, bleeding, until my mother found me eventually.  I was unable to provide an answer to her query about what happened to me.  I couldn't remember a thing past leaving the house after dinner.  My mother who had once been an R.N. hustled me into the bathroom to clean me up and put things to right once again.  These procedures were carried out very proficiently and almost always involved a bottle of iodine.  Mother was a great believer in the stuff.  I would begin to scream and carry on at the mere sight of the bottle but she persevered despite my protests.

I ended up with a deep, nasty cut under my chin which my mother pulled together with adhesive tape.  To this day, I have a small scar there as a reminder.  My forehead and cheeks were bruised and cut and these were cleaned up and bandaged as well.  I still couldn't tell her what happened so she put me to bed in my room with a fan blowing cool air and it wasn't until I woke up a few hours later that I was able to tell her I must've hit a big rock while going downhill.  She diagnosed my short lapse of memory as a minor concussion and seeing that I was none the worse for wear, the episode was over.  The true fact of the matter, however, was that I didn't hit a rock in the road at all.  When my briefly- interrupted memory returned, I remembered that I had been putting the tip of my shoes in- between the spokes of the front wheel while zooming downhill because I discovered it made a "neat" sound.  I never told my mother or anyone else in my family that this is what I'd been doing.  My penance was having to endure the misery and total embarrassment of starting 5th grade in a new school with new teachers with my head wrapped up looking like something out of "The Mummy"!  Served me right!!

There I was with no bike to ride.  My brother took pity on me and bought me a beautiful, brand new bicycle.  He told me that none of us kids had ever had a new bike and he wanted to change that.  It was new, purple and sparkled in the sun.  I loved it and wasso proud and pleased with it.

There we were, this past Sunday, and I found myself turning around to look back every once in a while to make sure my brother was safe and doing fine.  Of course he was, but it struck me as a bit of a role reversal and I rather liked that.

This is a picture of my current bicyle, a Bianchi Avenue.  Sweet!