There is a special set of circumstances that accompanies biking with children in tow. The streets seem kinder, the traffic slower, and the world smiles with us. The light heartedness of childhood is contagious.

Remember the first time you took your bicycle out with out your parents? I do. I was 5 years old. My 9 year old sister and I had permission to ride across our neighborhood to deliver a school fundraiser order that had arrived. Think tins of popcorn and small girls. This was before Girl Scouts were considered child labor and junk food. Small town in the 80s, families let their kids loose on the peaceful streets without a blink of an eye. I have so many fond memories of running amok with my siblings and making sure our adventures stayed out of the line of site of adults.

My sister and I weaved our little bikes back and forth across the almost car-less streets. The return trip was down hill, including one of the highest hills in our neighborhood (my need for speed on two wheels started young, and helped set my life time goal of Zoo Bombing in Portland before I die). We had been up and down this hill so many times; we knew it like the back of our hand.

Zooming down the hill, not an angst in the world, we headed back home. I remember exhilaration as I sped carefree, knowing that no adult eyes were on me. I rounded the corner back to my street. Because of my level of acceleration, and because no knowing adult eyes were about, I took the corner at an extra wide angle.

In a split second I realized that I was heading straight for the curb, I had rounded too far and my course was now off course. I tried to maneuver my handle bars to aim me towards the slanted concrete of my neighbor’s driveway instead of into the curb. Even to this day the 6 inches of curb side concrete intimidates me. I imagine that either of my two brothers could have bunny hopped the curb easily, and altogether avoided what happened next.

My 20 inch wheels didn’t reach the driveway as hoped. Not only did I fly over the curb, but I landed smack into the neighbor’s mail box. The mail box itself was made out of thin aluminum, but the mail box was mounted on top of a metal work vine that kept the mail box about four feet off the ground. This made for easy access for the mail carriers to deliver letters by vehicles without needing to get out of their mail trucks.

Upon crashing, one of the metal vines hooked into the side of my mouth like a fish hook into the lip of a bass. This hook didn’t have barbs like a fish hook though, and it ripped through my lip. Fresh, bright red blood filled my mouth, and made a puddle in my cupped hand. Fortunately I was close to home and my mom could hear my wailing before I reached the front door.

I earned ten stitches after a visit to the urgent care center, a faint scar on the left corner of my mouth, and the lasting memory of the adventure I was capable of at five that I still want to carry with me today.