When I was young, I inherited a bike from my older sister. [No, she did not die, she just grew out of it.]
I named her [the bike, not my sister] Tinkerbell. [This didn’t please Sister, as the bike’s name was POG.]
[And no, I’m not that good at drawing bikes. What gave it away? ]
One early spring day, my dad made an announcement:
“Today, I’m going to BLOW UP THE BIKES!!!”
Okay, maybe he didn’t say it in quite that manner, but to my four-year-old mind … well… I went crying to Mom, “He’s gonna blow up my bike!” I was very upset. [Duh.] He wanted to destroy my first love!
Mom and Dad reassured me that the bikes would be fine. Dad was just putting air into the tires. Why didn’t I go along and see?
A few minutes later, I found myself waiting in the car while Dad put air in the tires of the bikes. I don’t remember the precise order, but he filled his, then Mom’s, then Sister’s bikes’ tires.
At the age of four, this felt like an eternity.
Finally, Dad told me, “Okay, it’s your bike’s turn!” [He sounded so happy, too.]
After hearing what the other three bikes sounded like when their tires were filled, what happened next was …
Instantly, I started screaming. I knew exactly what had happened. Dad had BLOWN
Before I proceed on this tale of love lost, I must explain something. For the lucky few of you who knew me as a small child, you’ll remember my scream. [Trust me, you wouldn’t forget it.] My screams were more than just regular, ordinary kid screams. They’d start to scramble other’s brains and make them wish they were at the loudest rock concert ever because that would be more tolerable than my scream. When I screamed, I could hold the same glass-shattering pitch for about five minutes. [When you’re four, five minutes is probably more like thirty seconds. But it felt like five minutes to both screamer and those within a mile radius of said screamer.] An then I’d take a breath and start screaming again.
I’m pretty sure I screamed the entire way home. [This was only a couple blocks, but it seemed like a really long time to me, and I’m pretty sure to Dad as well.]
When Dad pulled into the driveway, I was so angry I jumped out of the car before it had completely stopped moving. DO NOT DO THIS AT HOME. EVER. It was the early/mid nineties. Things were different back then. Frosted Flakes made you hit home runs and Nike shoes could make you fly.
Anyway, Mom came out of the house, about to ask how it went, when she saw my face and heard my story.
“Dad blew up my bike I TOLD you he’d blow up my bike!!”
Okay, so I wasn’t as well-worded at the age of four as I am today. It got the point across, though, and turned my mom into MOTHER BEAR.
So, Dad agreed to take me to KMart and buy me a new bike.
Moral of the story: Listen to your children. Sometimes they are right.
Side Note: Whenever I get to the explosion part of my tale, Dad always has to cut in and let everyone know what really happened and that it wasn’t his fault, etc. So no we enter DIAGRAM MODE.
This bike was [insert number here] of years old. I don’t know where Sister got this bike, if it was a garage sale or a hand-me-down, so… She rode it for a couple years before I got it. I think I may have ridden it a bit the year before, but don’t quote me on that.
Well, as the rubber of the tire filled with air, it touched the metal and burst. And it wasn’t like Dad could fix it or anything, because the force of the tire bursting split the frame of the bike clean down the middle.
It’s not fun to ride half a bike.