The Biking Wounded

My little soldier.

My kids belong on a stage.

Case in point:

It was a hot, sunny, summer afternoon.

We sometimes get those in Edmonton.

Seven-year-old Erik was riding his bike on the sidewalk.

Next to a street that closely resembled the frenetic scramble of frantic ants when someone has stirred up their nest.

Dozens of neighbourhood kids of every size and variety screamed/shouted/laughed.

Scenarios were being enacted.

Dares carried out.

Counter-dares being proposed.

And through it all, Erik rode his bike serenely up and down.

Up and down.

Up and . . . oops.

Right at the foot of our neighbour’s lawn, in an effort to avoid a collision, he turned.

And toppled off his bike.

I had just come to the door, carrying a bowl of freshly-washed raspberries to offer as a mid-afternoon snack. I watched him go down.

In slow-motion.

Scraping one knee.

He rolled onto his back and, for several seconds, lay there. Then he looked up at me. “Mom!” he shouted. “I fell!”

“I saw you!” I called back. “Come on! Let’s get you fixed up!”

Slowly, he rolled over onto his stomach. Then, with kids running back and forth and even leaping over him, started crawling--crawling--up the lawn toward me.

Dragging his wounded leg.

He looked like a soldier crossing a battlefield.

I shook my head and watched him.

Finally, he reached the steps and flung himself onto his back.

“Mom! I hurt my knee! I think I have gangrene!”

I handed him the raspberries and went to get the band-aids.

Two minutes later, he was back on his bike.

Dangerously wounded, obviously-going-to-fall-right-off knee pumping madly as he rode.

Yep. Kids belong on a stage.