I was three years old, exploring in my grandparent’s big yard on a warm, Oregon summer day. They lived in a big, old house on a dead-end gravel road. My mom, two sisters, and I were staying with them for a while – after the divorce.
It came as a complete surprise when my Uncle Larry asked me, “Want to go for a ride?” He was going to the store for a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread.
Are you kidding? “Yea!” was my immediate answer. I suddenly lost all interest in inventorying the bugs on grandma’s sweet-smelling roses. Going for a ride was high adventure for a three-year-old. At almost thirteen, Uncle Larry was today determined old enough (and responsible enough) for an outing like this – just the two of us.
The store was eight blocks away; we would take the family bike.
It was a big, black, fat-tire, World War Two vintage work-horse of a bicycle. It had a huge tri-angle kick-stand attached to the front wheel that anchored that bike solidly to the ground. There was a rack over the back wheel that may have once been an aircraft carrier or at least part of one. It had a basket on the front that was nearly the size of a grocery store shopping cart.
He swooped me from the ground and sat me gently into the massive basket. I felt safe in that cage – until the kickstand went up. My compartment was suddenly unstable, it felt like I was balancing on the top of a bubble, but I held on and enjoyed the breeze on my face as my uncle moved us along with the power of his strong, teenage legs.
I was going for my first bike ride!
The deeper gravel on the shoulder of the street made rhythmical crunching sounds against those big, fat bike tires as they pressed in trailing lines.
Uncle Larry steadily churned a path, avoiding most of the potholes in the hard-packed gravel in the center of the road. We peddled past little, old houses in this little, gravel street neighborhood.
The bike tires suddenly went silent as we rolled onto the asphalt of North Main. With four blocks behind us and four to the store, Uncle Larry maneuvered a big left turn.
That must be when he got the idea, something he thought would be fun. He let the bike lean a little too deep into that turn, saying in a surprised voice, “Hey – no, what’s going on? Oh…..”
He brought it upright, but then turned and leaned the bike hard to the right, swerving across the center line in the road. There was no traffic, we had the street to ourselves.
“Stop! I want out!” I yelled. I could feel the bike wobble as it reacted to my weight being tossed from one side of the basket to the other.
Larry yelled, “Look Out! We’re going to crash!” And then, “No, no – it’s okay – I got it,” as the bike became vertical again. I was hanging on for my life with my fingers gripping through the wire grill, yelling, Stop! Stop!
I felt helpless to get Larry’s attention. Certainly, he would listen to reason and end this charade – if he weren’t so busy trying to save us both from this massive, out-of-control bicycle that seemed to have a mind of its own.
He yelled, “Woop, whoops! Oh no, here we go!” as again, the bike mysteriously leaned far to the left, and again, “No, no, I got it, we’re okay,” as the bike became vertical again.
With another sweep to the right – he yelled in surprise, “Oh – no, look out! We’re gonna……..” This time, that old bike was leaning so far, the pedal hit the pavement and the bike instantly flipped on its side and slid like a B-17 Bomber emergency landing without landing gear, scraping metal on pavement until coming to a stop. I bounced out of the basket and tumbled to the curb like a Presto Log.
I saw no blood in my quick self-check. All limbs were attached and unbroken. It was time now for Uncle Larry to pay for his error in judgment.
With my head tipped back, I drew in a deep breath, and used the only tool available to me as a three-year-old to express my extreme displeasure with his piloting of this bike – I screamed as loud as I could, “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!” likely extending his probation period for taking me on rides.
