This story in the Daily Camera reminded me of this semi-fond childhood memory.
I was 5 or 6, had just finally learned to ride a 2-wheeled bike, and spent an entire Saturday (no joke, I am not sure I stopped for anything but lunch) riding up and down our street in front of the house. It was awesome. I remember (this is one of my earliest memories) thinking “this is like flying!”
It was so much fun that I wondered what it would be like to ride *with my eyes closed* for just a minute, just to feel the gliding sensation even better.
The next thing I knew, I was in the bed (luckily the tailgate was down) of our neighbor’s ghetto-ass lowrider truck (this is New Mexico in the 80s, what can I say…) I wasn’t hurt, but I was terrified, and I started sobbing uncontrollably and ran inside – where my father asked me what had happened.
I knew that there was no way this horrible tragedy could be my fault, so I said the first thing that came to mind, and a quote that Sarah still mocks me with today: “It’s not fair!”
Yes, indeed. It was not fair. But that was how my life of cycling began, with an ambush by a stealth lowrider.