I have already covered a
couple of my “bicycle memories” in past stories, including that of lying on the
front lawn of my house waiting for Sears to deliver the bicycle that my
grandfather had bought for me and having an allergic reaction to the tetanus
shot I received after being unintentionally cut off by an older boy while I was
still a novice and sailing head-first into a ditch.
Having saved the best for
last, I will now relate the tale of my “near-death” bicycle memory. I was about nine-years-old. I don’t remember whether I was riding home
from school or just out for a “cruise”.
I was at the corner of Washington Street and 26th Avenue in
Hutchinson, Kansas, riding south. The
intersection was not regulated by stop or yield signs. Unseen by me, a panel delivery truck was
approaching the intersection from my right.
We collided. I have no memory of
being struck. When I came to, several
strangers, including the truck’s driver, were bending over me looking quite
concerned. Apparently, I had struck my
forehead on the curb.
To say I was lucky would
be an understatement. The driver must
have slammed on his brakes in time to slow to a great degree. I was able to ride my bike home. I have no memory of seeing a doctor or even
informing my parents, although I believe they did receive a phone call from the
police. I’m sure my mother was relieved
to know that I required no care from her.
© 30 May 2016
Part 2
[Because
the chosen topic for today, “Public Places”, carries very little resonance with
me and my story from last week on the subject of “Bicycle Memories”, while
focusing on my “near death experience” on a two-wheeled conveyance, omitted two
other two-wheeled adventures that, while less serious, are nevertheless forever
emblazoned in my memory. Taken together,
they offer a clue to as why I have not sat astride a bicycle for nearly ten
years now.]
The first misadventure
took place in August of 2001. My late
husband, Laurin, and I were fond of taking bike rides around our neighborhood
in Dearborn, MI. On this occasion, we
were heading back to our apartment building on a public sidewalk when I took a
spill. I can’t remember the exact
cause. I only had a slight scrape but it
shook me up enough that I walked my bike the last three blocks home.
Within a few days, we
were on our way to Montreal for the Gay Pride Day Parade. We hung our new bike rack on the decklid of
our car crossing our fingers that everything would remain secured for the
entire journey. Having arrived without
incident, we thought it would be fun to drive our car to the top of Mt. Royale
and ride our bikes down the long, steep hill.
It wasn’t long before we had attained a high enough speed that I noticed
that all was not right with my front wheel.
It had a noticeable wobble. I
nearly lost control. I had no choice but
to walk my bike to the bottom of the incline.
The street there was lined with shops and I was lucky to find a bicycle
shop nearby. Within a couple of hours,
all was fixed but the seed of doubt had been planted once again that perhaps
bikes and I just don’t get along. (Some
of you may remember the story I told a year or so ago about being cut off by
another boy as a novice bike rider and sailing head-over-handle bars into a
ditch where I cut my forehead on a rock and ended up with an allergic reaction
to the old horse-derived tetanus serum.)
But the “Bicycle Memory”
to top them all occurred ten years ago almost to the day. Laurin and I were simply going out for a
nice, easy pleasant ride around Capitol Hill.
We needed to air our tires, as they had gotten rather low in storage. We stopped at the Conoco station at 8th
Ave. and Downing. They must have had two
air hoses because I remember both of us filling our tires simultaneously. I had just completed the job when I heard a
loud “BLAM”. Laurin had over-inflated one of his tires and
it had blown out. So, we took turns
riding my bike and walking his to Turin Bicycles at 7th Ave. and
Lincoln St. The blow-out had bent the
rim on his bike and they needed a day to make the repairs. We headed toward home with just my bike. I rode a few blocks down 7th Ave.
and then offered my bike to Laurin. In
those days, 7th Ave. sidewalk crossings were not graded for the
handicapped. For some reason--perhaps
related to his incipient but undiagnosed Parkinson’s--Laurin did not stop in
time and ran into the rather high curb.
He ended up flying over the handlebars and now my bike, too, had a bent
rim. My visions of what the guys at the
bike shop would say or think haunted my every step on the return trip.
Well, they were very
diplomatic about showing any disbelief or contempt (after all, we were now
repeat customers). The walk home was
very long but we both saw the funny side of the entire affair. I was extremely relieved that Laurin was
hardly scratched from his fall. Later, with
both repairs having been completed, we immediately set about finding a buyer
for the bikes from Hell. From then on,
we would trust our lives to walking shoes, which are guaranteed never to blow
out or get bent.
© 5 Jun 2016
About
the Author
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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