A Childhood Memoir - Revision 2

I was nine, and true freedom was a wristwatch and a two-wheeled bicycle. I would ride for miles; each day growing braver and more fearless. My bike represented hope and confidence to me; things I lacked. It was boldness and spirit, wrapped up in a shiny, midnight blue package.

My grandfather was a jaunty, streetwise Irish detective, and here visiting his granddaughters for two weeks. I had been showing off on my new bike, riding up and down the hill in the street beyond our driveway.  I would pedal up, then turn and pedal as fast as I could launching myself over the top of the hill.  My stomach wavered and my head felt fluttery and light.  I imagined this was what it felt like to fly!  Over and over and over again....up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, down the hill. It made me a bit nauseous, but I couldn't stop.

On my sixth run, I was feeling pretty confident.  I was giddy from soaring and swooping at near-light speed.  I was invincible! When I crested the hill, I caught off to my right.  In a terrifying flash, I saw a gauntlet of pavement and rocks lying in the middle of the street. No way to stop, too fast, too fast! I'm not sure if I my scream was in my head or out loud.

My blue three-speed hit a large, savage block and halted dead in it's tracks. Propulsion rocketed my body upward and over the handlebars, soaring through the air.  It was an eery juxtaposition - watching it all happening, with a heightened awareness of time and space, but no ability to effect a change.  This wasn't going to be good.

I hit the pavement face first, and instantly felt a searing, ripping pain like I had never before felt in my life.  Skidding and bouncing up the road, I rolled four times and landed in a gravel ditch. My bike had ricocheted down the center line and jangled to a stop about twenty feet away. I tried to move; every part of me hurt.  I had to get my bike before a car came! Crap! OW!

I put my hands to my face and head, trying to assess the damage. My palms were covered in blood and gravel and shredded skin. Blood! Panic! Ohmygodithurts! I began to cry, slowly at first and quickly launched into gasping huge dollops of air. Sobbing and hysterical, I heaved giant breaths of fear, pain, relief and pure adrenalin.

My sister had been silently observing my antics. She ran to the house, fully intending to tattle that I had wrecked my new bike. Pop must've been taken aback to see me standing in the middle of the busy road, looking like an extra in a B horror movie.  He was an intimidating man by anyone's standard, but on this day he ran faster and with more grace and agility than even Carl Lewis dared dream. Through salty tears and grime, I watched him zooming closer, in a dead-on sprint down the long driveway.  For a brief moment, I feared he wouldn't be able to stop either and I'd be in another accident.

Thankfully, he had far better control than I did.  In one motion, he scooped me up in his arms and held me close, saying "I've got you honey...I got you.  It's gonna be okay..."  I rested my head on his chest, still bawling my heart out.  He used a foot to snag my mangled bike and heave it to the side of the road. The smell of Old Spice and sweat were oddly comforting. I worried that I was getting blood and snot on his nice shirt.

He carried me right to the tiny upstairs bath. Mother brushed by him, loudly exclaiming, "Oh Sweet Jesus, NOW what have you done?!" I couldn't stop crying and couldn't catch my breath long enough  to explain.  She managed to clean me up in spite of my flailing against the course washcloth and brusque demeanor.   I glanced in the mirror and whimpered when I saw my broken reflection. My prize for racing (and crashing) was not simply an ugly road rash from head to toe, I'd also managed to shatter my two front teeth. It hurt so badly; the nerves were exposed and raw, and it felt like my face was on fire. I was pretty sure that I was going to be toothless and ugly forever.

The dentist agreed to see me immediately, and we set out on the hour-long journey to his office.
Pop sat with me in the back seat of the Chevy wagon, and he held me close for the long ride. I wondered, years later, what passers-by must have thought glancing in our window. When we finally arrived, the dentist looked from me to my mother and shook his head.  I followed him to the chair, silently cursing my mother for bringing me to have shots on top of my already catastrophic day. Right off the bat he gave me five shots of novocaine, mumbling under his breath. I never understood the meaning of a paradox until that very moment. What sweet relief!

An hour later, my teeth were repaired and my face numb and drooly. I rested my forehead on the cool window in the backseat, watching the edge of the road hurtle by mile after mile. My head was muddled and awkward, and I was exhausted. I wondered why flying and freedom had to be so painful. It seemed a steep price. I looked up at Pop, and he winked at me.

Somehow, I felt more grown up.