I was almost too old to be riding a bike but at fourteen I had no other means of transportation. I had a green ten-speed that had been a hand me down from my older sister. It wasn’t fancy but I didn’t mind. My friend Laura lived just outside of our subdivision entrance and even though my mother normally didn’t like me riding past her line of sight, this seemed harmless.

I don’t really remember what Laura and I did that summer afternoon but I suspect it focused on talking about boys at our school. Dinner time was fast approaching and the sun was low. I climbed onto my bicycle and began my trip home. It was warm and muggy and my skin stuck to the plastic of the small seat. The air felt good as it whipped through my light t-shirt and cotton shorts, so I pedaled faster, confident in my skills.

Each house was neatly tucked behind trees and rolling hills and my ten-speed easily managed the changing terrain. At fourteen, the strength and energy it takes to ride up and down hills was readily available and my legs pumped easily. As I crested the last of the big hills I took my hands off the handlebars to wipe the moisture off of my face. The bike began to waiver, I quickly lost my balance and before I could react, me and the bike went tumbling down the hill.

I stood up. There were no cars to be seen in either direction. I was safely hidden from view by anyone in a house due to the towering pines. I looked down and saw raw, bloodied skin from my calf to my butt. It was simple road rash, but it was bad. I stood there unsure of what to do. I had never been hurt this badly without a “grown-up” near at hand. How could I have let this happen? Where was my mommy? What should I do now?

I gingerly swung my leg over my bike but it was obvious I was not going to be riding home. My skin was sticky with blood and the pain and soreness was quickly setting in. I’d have to walk the last 1/8 of a mile. I felt small and shameful as I slowly crept into the driveway. I had taken my first shot at independence and failed. My mother would never allow me to do anything alone ever again – of this I was sure. I knew the hysterics that would be waiting for me behind our front door. I decided right then that I would not cry. If she knew that I had been scared, that I had faltered I would be a prisoner the rest of my life. I would laugh at it all and prove to her that I was grown up.

I opened the front door and quietly walked into the kitchen. I confidently said “hi”. My mother turned around and shrieked. “OH MY GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? ARE YOU OKAY? DID YOU BREAK ANYTHING? SIT DOWN. NO!! DON’T SIT DOWN, STAND UP! WAIT – I’LL GO GET THE PEROXIDE.” I don’t really remember what happened after that, but I do know that I did not cry.

That muggy, sticky, summer day marked my first step towards adulthood. It is the moments when things go horribly wrong and your reaction to them that builds an adult. It is failing, falling, floundering and learning to regain your equilibrium that ushers in being a “grown-up”. I wonder if I will have the same fortitude my parents had to send me out alone on my ten-speed to face the unknown when it is Lucy’s turn to start her path into adulthood.
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Wish me luck as I enter this month’s Write Away Contest at Scribbit.