Evel Knievel

When I was about nine years old, I almost died.

Well alright. I didn't almost die, but I thought I was going to.

Well alright. I didn't think I was going to die. Whatever.

Let's back up.

The year I turned nine, I decided I was ready for a new bike. The bike I was riding was old news. It was stupid and little and for babies. Basically, everything about it was terrible, and if I didn't get a new bike soon, someone was going to get a punch in the face, right in the damn nose, no questions asked, give me a new bike, right now.

I'm not kidding. Picture this scenario, if you will. Pretend that I am a nine year old girl, and I have been presented with two boxes. Box A is beautiful and golden, and it is glowing and sparkling and wonderful, and inside of it, if I choose to open it, is world peace and goodwill towards everyone forever. Plus I get to keep the box and be rich and famous and a stunning actress-slash-singer-slash-defense attorney. Box B is gross and ugly. It's soggy and dirty and it has spiders and cobwebs, plus it smells bad. Inside of it, if I choose to open it, all the babies in the world will die and my friends and family will be struck with an affliction in which they throw up all the time forever, but also, I get a new bike.

Guess which box I would have picked.

So finally, it's Christmas. I wake up, and you'd better believe there's this bitchin' new bike waiting for me next to the Christmas tree. It was easily the coolest bike you have ever seen in your life, and it was so definitely for a young adult such as myself. It was pink and teal (because, thanks, it was 1991), and it had what I had wanted more than anything ever in the world - handlebar brakes.

If you have a child, or if you have recently been a child, or if you maybe sort of remember being a child, you will know this: bikes for small children have foot brakes. You slam the pedals backwards and you stop. It's basically the easiest thing ever. However, foot brakes indicate to the world of nine year olds that you're completely unskilled in the ways of bikesmanship, and that you're the biggest baby ever, and oh my god I can't believe your bike still has foot brakes ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

So handlebar brakes meant I had finally made it into the world of adult biking. Screw you, girl down the street that made fun of me a lot, my bike is way awesomer than yours now. I was immediately and without a doubt ready to go outside and start riding around the neighborhood to show people what was up with my excellence. I wheeled my bike to the door and was about to go when my parents reminded me,

"Hey, it's December in Massachusetts. Get the hell back in here, you can ride it in the spring."

The spring!? Oh the agony. As though waiting as long as I had wasn't excruciating enough, thanks for buying me a bike in the middle of a blizzard, parents. I mean Santa.

Anyhow, fastforward to when I was finally able to ride this behemoth of a bike. My father was pretty insistent that he take me on a practice run first. This was not the type of bicycle I was used to, and he wanted to make sure I knew what I was in for.

We went to the pond near my house which had riding paths all over the place, and we got started. "Remember," he said, "if you try to brake with your feet, nothing will happen. Hand brakes!" And I will tell you this, ladies and gentlemen. I was fucking good at hand brakes. Did I fall off of my bike? Not even one time. (I thank goodness for that, because it was the early nineties, and god knows I was in shorts and a tank top and no elbow or knee pads, and sure as hell no helmet.) I was all,

"Ooh, look at me, I am fucking good at this."

My father was pretty unsure of my progress and thought that our lessons should continue, but I was like, "Hell no, it's time to show the bitches back home what's up." So we left the pond, and we went home. I ran into the house as soon as we arrived and I found Jenny, who was seven at the time. I said, "GET YOUR BABY BIKE, IT'S TIME TO RIDE." Or, something similar to that. I don't know, I was nine. I said whatever nine year olds say to seven year olds who want to go bike riding. "Let's go ride bikes!" maybe? Whatever.

So we get outside, and I am riding the HELL out of that bike. I mean, I am practically Evel Knievel on that thing. It's a miracle I wasn't trying to to backflips off the roof or something. Finally, I decide it's time to do the one thing that no one in my neighborhood had dared to do before. I was going to ride down the steepest hill on the face of the planet. My sister tried to talk me out of it.

"Cindy, please don't ride your bike over the edge of the cliff."

Okay, it wasn't really like a cliff, but it was steep. Super steep. Certainly not sanctioned for nine year olds on bikes. But I was queen of the world that day, and it was on. I was going to show that hill that I was the master of all things bicycle.

Now I'm not good at measurements. I can't tell you the angle of the hill. I can't tell you how long the road was in feet or inches or kilometers or cubits. But I can tell you this. The hill was exactly enough steep, and the road was exactly enough long, for me to think this,

"Oh my god why aren't my brakes working my feet are spiraling out of control I know I should be doing something differently but I think I am about to break the sound barrier please dear Jesus,"

with just enough time to spare to crash violently into a parked truck at the bottom.

The next thing I remember is being tangled up on the ground. I was intertwined with my bike in a way that would have lead people to believe that we were intimate. I was certain that my brain was leaking out of my ears, and I was relatively sure that I had broken every bone in my body, including ones that had not existed until this accident and were spawned solely for the purpose of breaking at this moment. I looked up and I saw Jenny staring at me as though I was already dead. So I said,

"Um. Can you go get mom?"

Without a word, she turned around and ran with the speed of an Olympian towards our house. I think I passed out again at that point, because the next thing I remember is a crowd of people gathered around me, and my mother untangling my lifeless body from the wreckage that was my new bike.

Upon arriving back at our house, my mother looked me over and came to the conclusion that I had not in fact done any real damage. She took me to the bathroom and she gave me a bath (which, under any other circumstance at the age of nine, would have mortified me beyond repair. However, I had just danced with death, and all I wanted in the world was my mommy.) I had gravel in my skin and hair, and I had torn up my knee in a way that ended up leaving a scar that I still have now. I remember my mother saying that my lips were paler than my skin, and I remember her not letting me go to sleep right away in case I had a concussion.

So basically, that's the story of how I almost died one time. Thankfully, I didn't brake any bones, or get any concussions, or damage any vehicles. Also, as it turned out, my dad was able to fix my bike into almost new condition when he got home that day.

Still though, I really don't ride a bike much anymore.