When I was a kid our whole family would go for bike rides on Sundays. My sisters whizzing by, on banana seats, summer breeze and all. I often rode on the handle bars of my Dad's bike. My Dad has never(still doesn't)had any reservations towards danger. It's part of what made my childhood exhilirating.
We would ride on the gravel road in front of our house and to the water tower that was about a mile away. My Dad liked to find pot holes. He would peddle the bike as fast as he could towards them. And we would sail for brief moments. Then we would come crashing down on the other side with dust announcing our victory.
One particular time things did not go as well. While we were in mid-air my foot somehow found the spokes in the tire. The bike landed and the tire continued to spin with my foot in it. The spokes chewed through my sneakers and through skin until they struck bone. My Dad carried me home. I remember very little except that my sister Debbie stayed behind and searched for skin.
That summer I was transported everywhere in a Red Rider wagon.
I felt like Caesar.
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