The scars of mobility

I don't remember learning to ride a bike. I do have some pictures in my mind of somebody learning to ride on the street in front of the house where I grew up. But my memory wires often get crossed between my own childhood and the childhoods of my children.
Was it me learning to ride on the purple bike with the banana seat and pink and white streamers on the handle bars? Or was it one of my daughters? Was it me who took off pedaling and forgot how to put on the brakes and ran into the back of a parked car?
Come to think of it, that was me.

Pre-mobile days.

Bike riding added such a grand dimension of freedom to my young life. Just like that, I became mobile. Not only was I mobile, I was also in complete control of my mobility. It was wonderful. But at the same time, as a solo bicyclist, I suddenly had important decisions to make that could impact my life in the best and worst ways.
Should I ride my bike to Chisholm Park? It could be fun. There were ducks and a swimming pool and a big metal rocket in the playground. However, while it was only 2 1/2 miles from my house, once I got there I'd also have to ride that same distance back home. Was it worth risking heat exhaustion (because it was always the middle of summer, you know), dehydration, hunger and missing "Father Knows Best" and "Leave It To Beaver"? Decisions, decision.
I think I made the trip one time. Once was enough for me to discover that the fun did not outweigh the risks.
Yes, kids sometimes have to learn things the hard way, and I was no different. I learned another difficult lesson on another summer day, after the mosquito truck made its rounds in our neighborhood.
The mosquito trucks were operated by the city. They drove around belching giant clouds of toxic fumes that allegedly controlled the mosquito population. My brother and his friends were daredevils, of course, and they liked to ride their bikes through the fog. I can still see them pedaling fiercely down Yucca Trail, their loud war-whoops trailing to whispers as they disappeared into the fumes. On this particular day, I watched their backs as they biked away and thought to myself, "If they can do it, surely I can do it too." I stood for a moment at the end of the driveway, staring down the street and weighing my chances. I could see nothing past the house next door, just thick gray smoke.

Weapon of mass destruction sans streamers.

But I took a deep breath anyway, jumped on my bike and took off without another thought. I made it almost to the corner where Yucca intersects Cimarron before I hit the curb. I was barefoot of course, so the top of my right foot and shin scraped 10 feet down the rough concrete before I finally came to a mangled stop. My wounds were impressive, bigger than peaches, gaping, bleeding.

I can't remember what happened next. I'm sure there was some crying involved. I probably limped home in the dissipating fog, pushing my bike, tears and snot dripping from my nose and chin. My mom probably tsk-tsked my ignorance as she cleaned me up and administered Band-Aids. I'm sure my dad consoled me with ice cream and candy and slipped me quarters for my piggy bank.
I learned a valuable lesson that day indeed. I learned it was not a good idea for me to ride my bike into mosquito fog, regardless of what my brother and his friends did.
And so I never did it again.