Bikes

On a Sunday afternoon our family particularly likes to wander the neighborhoods looking for moose, admiring flowerbeds and hoping to be invited to a bbq.  When I have my way, we walk.  When the boys get their way, we ride our bikes.  

One infamous Sunday in early July, we were just finishing our ride when Sport challenged Brandan to race him home.  I was pulling up the rear of our caravan, but I like a challenge.  Plus, I'm sort of stupid.  I came flying up from behind Brandan and Sport and announced my victory to Colt and Dash who were just dismounting in front of the house, by throwing my right hand into the air and raucously roaring.  Realizing that I was going too fast and needed to slow down, but not realizing that the correct method of doing this had nothing to do with the front brake located on the left handlebar, I gently squeezed that said lever.  Because no one uses the front brake (why does that even exist?!) it was sticky.  My slight pressure immediately seized the front tire and I accompanied the back of my bike through the air before bouncing across the asphalt road.  I am truly not exaggerating when I say my arc across the sky was long enough that I not only had time to hear the gasps of the neighbors whose attention I had caught by my victory shouts, but I also had time to register embarrassment before hitting the ground.  I thought for sure that my bike must have malfunctioned and loudly stated the fact while trying to gather myself off the road and get out of sight.  Unfortunately for me, my body's stress response is to black out.  You've heard of 'fight or flight'? That doesn't exist for me.  Some sort of baser instinct deep inside of me has determined that it is always in my best interest to play dead.  So, though I was desperate to escape the gawks of my neighbors who seemed to be having a block party we weren't invited to, I was prevented from making a clean get away by blacking out twice on the way to the back yard.  

When I finally made it to the back porch, I bawled.  First out of embarrassment and then because I HURT.  Everywhere.  My injuries were as follows: skinned knees, bruised thighs, hip bones, and pelvis (I think I hit the handle bars on my way over), skinned hands, a broken watch, cuts on my fingers, and a badly bruised and skinned elbow which I am convinced that I must have chipped since even now, nearly two months later, I still don't have full range motion without pain.  

Brandan was horrified for me and the kids were gravely concerned...for a while.  A short while.  Just after my accident, Colt sympathetically said, "Your wreck was scary.  And kind of funny."  And after just a few days, way before my ego or physical injuries had healed, Dash celebrated a win in a card game by looking expressively at me before shouting, "I win" and then pretending to crash into the ground.  I guess it serves me right for all the times I tell my kids to toughen up and slap an insufficient bandaide on their road rash before shooing them back out to play.   

It took me a month, by I did eventually get back on my bike.  And in the meantime, we compromised on our rambles.  While Brandan and I took turns pushing Tag in a stroller, the kids literally road circles around us on their bikes.

A family bike ride/walk.

Unwilling to be left out, Sis has taken to riding her "bike" on our trips.  On this particular day, she woke up grumpy from a nap, refused to get her hair combed, or put on pants.  Oh well.  I've already made a spectacle of myself to the neighbors.  What's a little indecent exposure?