In the subdivision where I spent my earliest years growing up, there were several dozen kids within five years of my age, and we all spent summers outside of our houses, often cruising the neighborhood in large groups on our bikes. Simple riding could turn into races once in a while, and my first summer with my new “racer” was an exciting one. It was a rebuilt older single-speed bike, but one that had the skinnier 26″ tires than some of my counterparts who had fatter tires on their bikes. Amongst all the kids, only my oldest brother had a 3-speed. So we started a round-the-block race, which in our case were not city blocks – the subdivision had a cross street only about every 12-15 homes. At the first intersection, we came to a “T” in the road, and the group headed right while I turned left at full throttle. I was looking backward over my shoulder, yelling at my brothers that they were going the wrong way (while I must have been the one going the wrong way, as everyone else turned right). The next thing I knew, I was on my back, looking into the face of a truck driver who had a terrified look on his face and tenor to his voice. As I had turned left, I had ridden my bike full-tilt right into the hood of a Jewel Tea truck. At that time, Jewel Tea trucks delivered small quantities of household goods, consumables, etc. to homes in the neighborhood. Sort of a low-tech Amazon delivery service. I had hit the truck and sailed over the hood, across the entire street, and landed on my back on soft grass in the ditch on the opposite side where the panicked driver was offering me, then all the kids, candy, gum, anything he had that kids might like. He kept saying, “You rode right into me! You rode right into me!” I think that he wanted to confirm to all of us kids that he hadn’t driven into me, that I had ridden into him. Funny, I realize now that we never got his name or his license info or anything. I had to limp my “new” bike home, frame bent and unable to roll the back wheel. The much greater injury for me was that when my dad got home from work, I got punished in the worst possible way – he refused to fix my bike until I had learned my lesson. Six weeks with no bike in the summer.
Someone was watching out for me that day.