More Fun With Bikes

My mom loves bikes. And jet skis. And four-wheelers. None of which she has. Whenever she's on one of these contraptions, she gets this look on her face like a six-year-old girl--gleeful and mischievous--and then flashes off, blond hair streaming out behind her.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" my brother asked me the first time we put her on a jet ski out on Smithville Lake in Missouri. As we watched, my mom gunned the throttle, zipping out across the water. We could hear her laughing from the shore.

We looked at each other. If we had done the same, she would have screamed at us to "Be careful!" That's what moms are for, after all.

"You know, I think so," I said.

Anyway, when my mom came to visit for Mother's Day, Tiffany and I decided to take her for a bike ride--indulge her wild side. That's what daughters are for. We were a little protective of her, though, given her propensity for speed. We had to pedal through the city to a ferry to get to Angel Island, a safe zone where we would have only pedestrians and other bikes to beware of.

Tiffany rode in front; we put my mom in between us, and I followed her. We were like a family of ducks trying to cross a busy street.

The first problem revealed itself early. My mom's rented bike had a finicky easy-gear--as in it was so easy it didn't work. My mom kept getting stuck in that gear. Her legs were pumping like crazy, but she wasn't moving anywhere. She looked like something out of an old Charlie Chaplin movie. Passersby on foot easily outpaced her, staring quizzically at her blurred limbs.

"I'm not moving!" she cried as we approached an intersection.

"Try changing gears," I offered.

Tiffany turned to look at us with a worried expression.

"Alright, to the sidewalk we go," she said, circling back.

Eventually, my mom got her gears to work in a way that allowed forward progress. We made it to the ferry and the island and rode around without incident, stopping to enjoy the views and some beers and Dr Peppers.

On the way back, though, my mom crashed twice in a span of about 90 seconds. First, she panicked when a group of people blocked the sidewalk ramp we needed to get down onto the street.

"Mom, use the ramp," I suggested, exactly as she toppled over a two-foot curb, jamming her left shin into her pedal.

Then, as we were still laughing from that, I saw another possible calamity.

"Mom, watch out for the trolley tracks!" I yelled, exactly as her front tire slipped into one. She went down like a felled tree, knocking her left ankle into her pedal.

After that it was slow-going, especially on the hills where the injuries, premature initiation of Charlie Chaplin-gear and laughter held us back a bit.

But we made it home. And when we got there, my mom pulled up her pant leg to reveal a pair of purplish bruises. And that, my friends, is what frozen peas are for.