Watch Out, Lance, Here Comes Jack!

Jack used to be a biker before I met him.  No, not the Harley kind, but the kind who rides down the side of the road for “exercise” on his lunch hour, tight biking shorts, water bottle, and geeky helmet completing the ensemble.  You know, the kind you sometimes honk at for swerving into your lane–but the kind you secretly wish you could be if you really knew how to ride a bike yourself.  That kind.

As an early present for his birthday, I bought him a bike trailer off Craigslist, thinking it would inspire him to start riding again, PLUS it would get at least two kids at a time out of the house so I could have some quiet moments on occasion.

So, he got out his old mountain bike to give it a tune-up, rode around in front of our house for about ten minutes just “getting the feel of things”–which really means “making sure that the ‘feel of things’ doesn’t hurt my lower back or my bum too much anymore after such a long time since I last rode”–and then popped on that bike trailer to the back of the bike.

Let the record show that they all look happy and excited in the pictures.

Let the record show that I DID ask if the girls needed to wear helmets.  (“Pshaw!” was the only answer I received, mind you.  I’m guessing the question–in his mind–was equivalent to asking if I need to put my car in reverse before backing out of the driveway.  In other words, pointless and ridiculous, to say the least.)

Let the record show that as they drove off into the sunset–literally; I’m not trying out metaphors for effect or anything here–things looked just fine, hunky-dory, peachy-keen.  Like they would all have a blast and get to do something together in the great outdoors.

But let the record show that–once again–Mama knows best because just as I was getting dinner all set on the table, expecting the two big girls and Jack to arrive home all out of breath and invigorated by the nice ride, cheeks aglow with merriment, sparkles in the eyes from getting to spend time together as a family, just as I was picturing all of that in my overly optimistic mind, Boodle and Imp come rushing through the kitchen door shouting simultaneously, “Mom!  Mom!  Come quick!  We had an accident!  A big accident!  Dad flipped us over and the bike trailer is broken!  We were all the way upside down, Mom!”

And then Jack entered the kitchen, a gash on his shin, HIS cheeks all aglow–but not with merriment.  Yes, he had flipped the bike and the trailer, but, no, no one was terribly injured beyond just a good war story to tell Mom.  Apparently there was a “bit of a hill” or something like that, and he went over it going just a little too fast.  He’s not used to dragging along an extra 100 pounds behind him, so the momentum of the trailer must have caught up to him and sent them all flying.  Of course, there were many “manly” excuses and pontifications on the matter, but we were all laughing by the time he’d finished telling the tale of the accident.

Moral of the story:  always wear your bike helmet, even if you’re just a passenger.

Moral of the story:  Mom is always right.  And that’s that.

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