I was six years old and the family was spending the day at my grandparent's house. From what I remember, it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining without a cloud in sight, and the temperature was just right for a nice bike ride with my dad. Being the deprived child that I was, however, I could not yet ride a bike. Such unfortunate circumstances only existed because of the fact that sidewalks and paved driveways do not exist where I live. Anyways, my dad got out a single street bike that was designed to seat only one person, creating a dilemma, for there where two of us and only one bike. Yet in my dad's infinite wisdom, he decided that both of us could fit on a single bike, a genuinely bad idea. It did not help the situation that my parents were not overly zealous when it came to safety. Not that having two people on a bike meant for one is safe, but not having helmets is flat out deadly. Even with all the possible hazards, my dad and I attempted to have a leisurely bike ride through the suburbs of Cleveland. .
From the beginning, the ride was doomed. Fate, it seemed, had it in for me. I could have escaped the ensuing head trauma because of the manner in which my father placed me on the bike. After my dad had taken his comfortable position on the lone seat I was then picked up and placed me on the top tube (connects the seat with the handlebars) in a manner in which my genital region should have been in great agony. Looking back, if I had been placed an inch or so differently, I may have been saved from the ill-fated voyage. Once on the bike, however, I remember very little of what happened next. I recall being uncomfortable and fearing that I might fall off if my dad let go with the arm he used to hold me on (he used the other arm to steer). Those are the last memories I have before becoming conscience on my grandma's kitchen table balling my eyes out surrounded by what seemed like at the time great beastly creatures.
