: the stuff you never outgrow :

heart w_arrow

Some bonds last forever. We don’t simply abandon things because we get older and bigger. They stay with us from cradle to grave. No matter how inappropriate or immature they may seem. They’re hard-wired, embedded in our DNA.

Seriously, think about it, we all have a personal list of lifelong loves. Mine is below:

1. cartoons
2. Dr. Seuss
3. macaroni & cheese
4. toys
5. holding hands
6. sno-cones
7. riding bikes

There’s probably more, but it doesn’t matter. I’m only trying to prove a point. And that is: just because you love something doesn’t mean it won’t kill you.

wheeI fell off my bike yesterday. At an intersection. In heavy traffic. I didn’t require medical attention, but the embarrassment could easily have killed me. Cars honked, cars stopped, windows rolled down, people hollered, people stared, people asked if I was okay — it was a public spectacle. And I was the unwilling attraction.

Bike riding is for kids or very fit adults. I am neither. I’m old and I’m graceless. I’ve no business being on a bicycle. I went down like space junk, head first. The thought that ran through my mind as I plummeted to the ground wasn’t ‘this is going to hurt’ or ‘oh, shit.’ No. My only thought was, ‘well, this is mortifying.’

When my forehead hit the pavement, the impact sent my backpack over my head to complete the picture of bumbling dork. There’s no way to haul yourself up from mayhem like that with any dignity. I had to untangle myself from the bike, get the backpack off my head, and try to appear unfazed and unhurt throughout. I did my best to look poised as I righted myself and restored order, but probably failed. Then I sucked it up, hopped back on my bike, waved to the onlookers, and wobbled into oncoming traffic. (I just don’t learn.)


When I got home I was pleased to see I wasn’t all that battered. The knuckles of my left hand are torn up, my right knee is shredded, I have a limp, but I’m otherwise fine. My forehead bears the distinct imprint of gravel, but my hair covers that. The damage was confined mostly to my pride. And my shoe. Blood dripped onto the shoelaces and the tongue of the sneaker.

Today, my knee is sporting a bandage I fashioned from a paper towel, cotton rounds, and packaging tape. I had no Band-Aids big enough and that’s the lesson I’ve learned from this fiasco: keep a plentiful supply of gauze, neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, adhesive tape, Band-Aids, splints, and pressure bandages on hand. And wear a helmet, not a backpack.

ladylike bikingCopyright © 2015 publikworks


23 thoughts on “: the stuff you never outgrow :

  1. Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your accident. It’s no fun falling from a bike. I should know, I was hit by a car once and went bouncing across the road like a skimmed stone.

    I know it looks silly, but you really do need to get some protective gear. I recommend a spacesuit.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Ohmygod, hit by a car? How awful, bun. I’ve had nightmares like that, but only two close calls and I was on foot both times. Once when I was 5 and again when I was 7. I’m so glad you survived.

      It does look silly and I simply can’t justify the expense. Until I’m in a body cast, then I’ll be sorry.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Luckily I wasn’t badly hurt because it was at fairly low speed. It was my own fault too. I was freewheeling down a slight slope in the city late at night and I didn’t notice a red light. A car came out of a small street and hit me and then I went into full rubber ball mode.

        I was shaken and a bit bruised, but the driver of the car looked so upset and was so apologetic that I was rather more worried about her. :D

        Liked by 1 person

  2. It’s good that the blood hit your shoe. It’ll be your badge of honor — a little bump on the noggin won’t stop YOU from getting back on that bike. Pride be damned!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I’m really not. That night I wondered why the palms of my hands weren’t scraped up from the pavement. They used to be as scabby as my knees when I was a kid. Then I remembered I used my forehead to catch myself instead of my hands.


    1. Welcome to the U.S. midwest, where language is a little eccentric sometimes.

      A sno-cone is crushed ice with flavored syrup, like cherry and grape and, my favorite, blue raspbery. You guys probably have them, but call them something a lot more clever than sno-cones. Yes?


        1. We have slushes, but they’re a drink. sno-cones are a solid scoop of crushed with syrup on it. They come in a paper cone instead of a cup with a straw. Mmm, mmm, they’re good.


Comments are closed.