Column:
Every kid needs one good, hard topple from a bike
By Brittany
Strickland
November 26, 2007 | I was 4 years old when I first
learned how to ride a bike. I was 7 when I learned how
to ride one without training wheels. From the day those
wheels were detached, on the front yard of our Nevada
home, that small, pink and white bike was my favorite
form of transportation. When I was riding, it was my
time to experience the immense curiosity of childhood
and yet I also had the opportunity to go where I needed
to go and the ability to do it autonomously.
Shortly after our stay in Nevada, when my family moved
to Germany, my bike moved right along with us. I took
advantage of any moment I had to ride it: to the horse
stables, the local toy store, my German grandma's house
for pudding, even to my friend, Robin's. Robin and her
sister were the only other American girls in our village
so I often enjoyed the familiarity that she and her
family brought to me.
On one chilly evening, my sister and I decided to
ride down to Robin's house to watch a movie. We had
almost arrived when we came upon a long and very steep
hill. I headed down it. My sister was riding behind
me when my little pink and white bike became weary.
It wobbled back and forth, the pedals spinning around
in blurred rotations as I tried to catch them with my
feet. It didn't work. Instead, I had only instigated
the bike's instability and it proceeded to pick up speed.
Faster, faster, and faster, the bike was feeling like
see-saw under my body. It took control and I lost it.
I flipped, head and feet flying, over my handlebars,
landing on the asphalt directly onto my face and my
left hand. It didn't stop there, and neither did I.
I continued to skid down the hill with my hand and face
being skinned and burned by the road.
When I finally stopped, blood was spilling into and
out of my mouth. My hand was dangling in front of my
body -- luckily still attached -- but as painful as
if it were severed. My fingers were being caressed with
deep shades of red blood and I was crying for my mother.
Neighborhood residents peeked outside to help and a
lovely woman came up to me in an effort to calm me.
I pushed her away and could only say only one thing,
"I want my mom! I want my mom!" It may sound snotty
now, but at the moment, I was a young girl in an extensive
state of shock, stranded in a town where I did not even
speak the same language, and afraid of the pain that
was new and unruly.
My sister quickly rode up the street to Robin's house
and called my mom on the phone. She promptly showed
up and put me in the passenger seat beside her. I was
crying tears that were burning my cuts and I was breathing
heavily and fast. My two front teeth were twiddling
loosely around in my mouth. My hands were motionless.
My eyes, swollen.
That night, my mom took a picture of me sleeping.
My hand was wrapped in gauze and my top lip was swollen
to the size of a small apple. We still have that picture
and the pain is regurgitated every time I see it. Though
the pink and white bike was officially destroyed the
night I rode it down that hill, the next year I received
a new one. It was tall, black and blue, and I had it
for the next 11 years, that is, before its chain began
to break. Reluctantly, I had to lose my second bicycle.
Now I have a bike that is 30 years old. The seat is
sharp and the gears are gritty, but I still feel resplendent
when I put my car in the garage and take the bicycle
out for an evening ride.
Though I never have forgotten the events of my bike
wreck, I am grateful for it and I think every kid must
have at least one good, hardy topple off of their bike.
After all, then they can appreciate the joy of riding
slowly when they are old -- yet still riding nonetheless.
Writer Herbert George Wells put it best when he said,
"Every time I see an adult on a bicycle, I no longer
despair for the future of the human race."
NW
MS |
