The Great Bicycle Wreck Of '68. (Oh the humanity!)

Ed Wilson was a kid who lived in my neighborhood and like all kids, Ed and I rode our bicycles at breakneck speed whenever possible. Staying inside and playing was not only out of the question but more dangerous then bike riding at speeds approaching the surreal. To be in close proximity to parents for very long was hazardous to our health. It was just a matter of time before we got on their last nerve and then belts, hair brushes, switches ( please god no) or some other implement of destruction would be whipped out, no pun intended, and we would get sent outside anyway, rubbing our backsides with tears in out eyes.

There were no video games, no DVDs, no computers, no cell phones, no play dates, and nothing to distract us from the serious business of being kids. From the time school let out until it let back in again, my uniform of the day was a pair of cut off blue jean shorts and nothing else. No shoes, no shirt, no problem! I carry the scars from that era of my life proudly, and I have a deep sense of pity for kids who live their lives cooped up inside never to be maimed by a fellow child or watch in fixed fascination as blood flowed as a result from a rediscovery of the laws of physics.

Television, what little we saw of it, caused many bruises and much misery, even though we never quite figured it out. Knowing next to nothing about the magic of camera work, we assumed that anything shown on television was not only a reflection of reality but also something we, as kids, ought to try. That’s one of the big differences between kids today and those of who are veterans of the last sixties. The smallest and the most gullible kids were used as Guinea pigs when I was growing up, and therefore, learned the quickest that if the words, “We saw this on TV..” then an exit ought to be found fast. The palm tree catapult that launched Tarzan over the river full of crocodiles was the pine tree that smashed me into the ground after a flight of about three feet. I learned very young that watching too much television was harmful in ways most adults had never dreamed.

 Some of the injuries were gruesome but none was ever fatal, or even so much as debilitating, at least for very long. An older kid named Steve loped off the top half of his right foot while mowing the lawn barefooted. The bloody spot in the grass where the accident happened turned into a sort of Mecca for the boys in the neighborhood. Ray, the kid who lived next door, was the spiritual guide for the blood spot and would lead small groups to where the accident happened and offer a narrative as well. A few days after the accident, Ray started selling glimpses of the severed flesh that he kept in a shoebox, but it looked suspiciously like the skin off a baked chicken. Ray was set upon by the Temple brothers for his fraud and while the fracas was being settled, Ray’s Chihuahua mutt, Grumpy, ate the severed flesh/chicken skin.

My little sister, who was by no means a Tomboy, was running around one evening at a neighbor’s house and I watched her as she fell to the ground screaming. I had no idea what had happened, but the first thing I did was to make sure that my parents saw me as someone far away from the action. There was an unwritten rule that when a sibling was injured the other siblings were assumed guilty until proven innocent. The time frame for appeal by reason of innocence extended from the time the parent discovered the crime until a suitable implement of punishment could be found.

I credit both my incredible agility and my ability for fiction directly to this unwritten rule.

What had happened to my sister that night was that she ran too close to the grill that we had been using, and it being a homemade grill, had a jagged piece of metal sticking out to one side. My sister had caught that piece of metal near her left temple and it tore a six stitch gash in her head. This day and age there would be a lawsuit but my mother took her to the hospital, had her sewn up, and everyone was back at the cook-out in an hour or so. She had one hell of a scar to show off for a long time and we were all jealous.

Ed Wilson and I were heading towards each other at speeds that defy explanation. I was heading east, Ed was heading west and as we drew near to one another, we began to take evasive action. I broke left. Ed broke right. I broke right. Ed broke left. A split second before impact he screamed. I remember watching Ed pass me in midair, and marveled at the brief sensation of flying. The pavement broke the spell, but not my fall. I skinned by hands, knees, my head collided with Ed’s bike. I sat up and heard other kids screaming, and they were running towards us. I looked over at Ed and was horrified. Ed had flown through the air and landed chest first on the concrete curb of the street. Shirtless, of course, Ed’s body had taken the full force of the impact. His right nipple dangled down from his chest as blood poured from the wound. He saw the blood, and his mangled flesh, and ran home screaming.

Kids these days just have no idea what they’re missing.

Take Care,

Mike