Okay, so, just to preface this, I told this story to my family a couple years back and they had no recollection of this ever happening.
So, this oughtta be good.
Alright, setting the scene: I was seven and a halfish, and I lived in a tiny, rural town. Most kids drove a dirt bike or fourwheeler, if they weren’t illegally driving a car.
My next-door neighbors were no exception. They owned both a fourwheeler and a dirt bike, and I often watched with intrigue as they noisily revved along the street.
Obviously, they noticed my quite conspicuous intrigue. So, one day, they asked me if I wanted to ride the fourwheeler.
I answered as anyone would. “Um, yeah!”
So, I didn’t think to ask mom and dad, but, in my defense, I wore a helmet.
So I looped around the street about four or five times.
But I revved it up and started going to fast–which was, by the way, exhilarating–but I was going too fast for the turns I was taking, so the Fourwheeler tipped and I fell.
Since I was wearing a helmet (safety first, kids!), I was fine except for a skinned knee and a pair of skinned hands.
My neighbors freaked, I assured them I was fine, and I went home.
My parents noticed, asked me what happened. I told them, “I rode the four wheeler.”
They sat me down and told me that, maybe, next time I should ask before joy-riding fourwheelers.
Either fortunately or unfortunately, my fear levels have gone way up in the last eight years, so I doubt I’ll be doing anything similar any time soon.