Chibi of the Week

When I was about 11, I got a sweet new 10 speed - read: first bike without training wheels - that was black and silver, with neon pink styling. It ruled and everyone who saw it was hugely jealous. And rightly so.

The problem?

I was kind of a short 11 year old and my feet didn't really touch the pedals unless the seat was all the way lowered and even then I was straining with my tip-toes.
Hiding this from my parents was hard enough...but actually getting the thing up and hoisting myself onto the seat and then moving it forward was nothing short of a Herculean feat of determination that I think required the use of a magic flute I had lying around.

One day, I was riding (well, pushing and jumping at) the coveted 10 speed around at a family member's house (I had used a porch step to tip myself into the seat) and I suddenly lost a jelly sandal. The jelly had been just thick enough to give not only proper traction, but the full length of limb necessary to properly power the bike.

I felt a terrible white hot fear in my stomach and almost like I might faint. And then...a moment of clarity.

I was obviously going to die, yes, but I didn't have to flail around like a scared baby and make my last moments horrifically embarrassing. I could go down with dignity.
The bike was losing momentum. I only had a few seconds left now. I thought about how I had begged for the bike, even though I knew I wasn't really big enough to ride it yet and realized we all have dreams. Big dreams that maybe we're not quite ready for, but as long as we keep dreaming, even if we die in a horrible bicycle-squishing-our-guts-out-through-our-nostrils accident, that's what makes the dream and living all worth it.
Seconds later, the bike stopped and tipped sideways into the grass.

I'm safe, I thought for a second. My belief has carried me through to a nice soft grass landing.
But not to be.
My upper torso hit the grass, but my right leg - and the bike on top of it - hit the scratchy new sidewalk concrete like a bag of melty ice cubes. I heard them break. It was awful.


I looked down because I couldn't feel my knee, and saw a chunk of it was missing. Somehow, despite landing in the grass, my chin was all scratched up (I think it was the handlebar - that wicked evil 10 speed).
I dragged myself to the porch (I had only gotten as far as the sidewalk in front of the house) and examined my knee.


"I can see the bone!" I yelled, my eyes darting around in a panic for the nearest adult.

That night when my mom picked me up, I had a lot of band-aids. And a lot of donettes in my tummy. Apparently they're the only thing that keep knee injuries from feeling like the icy hand of death. Thanks, wicked 10 speed.