The Bike Wreck



Hamilton, Ohio



It’s funny how some of the biggest moments in our childhood are not clear to us as adults. Some of my memories are really just impressions. Others are tiny details in an otherwise larger story. And some childhood memories are primarily based on what other people tell me. There are moments that I think I remember well, only to discover that I don’t know many of the facts at all.  Such is the tale of my infamous bike wreck.

I was seven years old when I went sailing over the handlebars of my neighbor Lori’s bike and skidded across the road. I was riding her bike around the neighborhood, a typical summer pastime. But Lori’s bike was different than mine; hers had brakes. Mine didn’t. I was still riding a small purple two-wheeler that I stopped by using my feet or riding into the grass. I was thrilled to be riding Lori’s bike that day while she rode her sister’s. The bigger bikes made us both feel older and glamorous.

But when it was time to apply the brakes, I didn’t anticipate how suddenly the bike would stop. It lurched to a halt while my body kept moving – up and over the handlebars.

Or so I think.

In my recollection, I crashed my bike right in front of my babysitter Candy’s house. But I also remember crashing next to the creek where there was always a lot of gravel on the road that made bicycling difficult. In my history tale, Candy then drove me home and Mom took me to the hospital where they put a stinging antiseptic all over my road-rashed body. Those scabs healed, but there was permanent damage from the bike wreck: my two front teeth were permanently chipped.

Now, I don’t know how much of the story in my mind is true. I was unconscious for a while (I think), or else I was just in shock. I don’t know how I got home, but my mother has filled in some of the blanks.

Yes, a neighbor drove me home and delivered my bloody, gravel-caked body to her. She rushed me to the bathroom before my father could get a glimpse of all the blood. He’s squeamish and she had enough of a situation on her hands without having him faint. She started cleaning me up, wiping off my bloody arms, legs and face to assess how badly I was injured and then discovered that I had chipped both front teeth.

We were off to the hospital (still without my father). They cleaned me up. There were no broken bones or serious injuries other than the gaping hole in my smile.  That repercussion was permanent; I’m on my second set of caps. I have been a cautious bike rider ever since.

That moment in my childhood was a life-altering event. And yet, I remember very little of it. It’s odd how malleable our memories are. I can only vaguely recall the events of that day and the memories I do have shift to fit the story that my mother tells. What I think I remember may not be accurate at all. Which makes me wonder what else I’m remembering wrong?