When I was a kid and outgrew my tricycle, my grandfather took me to the bike shop in town and bought me my first two-wheeler: a green Kent, not sure of the model.

I literally rode that bike to the ground. One day my older brother, Frank, and I were about to head off to the playground. We got on our bikes. Earlier in the morning I removed the top tube. It was a hollow piece designed something like a motorcycle gas tank. It had no structural qualities to it and over the years had gotten loose and was just rattling around making noise as I went from place to place.

I rode off the curb and my bike split in two right at the bottom bracket. It was the craziest thing. I remember thinking that it's a good thing I wasn't flying off the curb after going down one of the many hills in town or I could’ve gotten seriously hurt.

So, the bike went in the trash and my grandfather gave me one of his bikes. He had two. It was a one speed adult bike, a little big for me but still manageable, and a manageable bike beats walking any day of the week.

By manageable I mean that most people throw one leg over the bike and then take off. With this one, I had to put the bike on the street and get on it while I was standing on the curb. To stop, I slowed down and then tilted the bike to my left side so that I could stop with my left foot on the ground supporting myself.

One day my mom sent me for milk. Krauzer's was about three blocks away; two blocks with little to no traffic until you get to Charles Street, which wasn't a heavily traveled road, but it did have local car traffic on it. You then make a left on Charles, a quick right on Willet Avenue, another quick left on Willet Lane, another right onto Jackson Street and Krauzer's was there on the right.

I arrived with no problems and stopped in at the big ice machine to the right of the front door. I dismounted and went inside and bought the gallon of milk.

Since this was the first time I rode this bike to pick up milk, I quickly discovered problems I didn't anticipate, like how to get back on the bike while holding a gallon of milk. I tried putting my leg over the bike frame and then leaning to pick up the milk off the ground but that didn’t work at all.

Thinking quickly, I stepped on parking block giving me enough height to get on my bike while still holding onto the milk bottle. I started to pedal and the weight of the milk along with the built-in momentum caused the handle bar to jerk erratically making my ride less than smooth.

Why didn't I just walk?

As I continued to pedal the bike began to steady itself out. I was pretty much home free.

As I turned the corner from Willett Lane to Willet Avenue I knew I had to get across Charles Street without any cars passing by. The block approaching Charles Street was short, only one house in length. With no cars in sight, I started to pedal faster to get across the road when a car turned the corner and began approaching the intersection. Knowing that I couldn't cross the road in time and knowing that I was bound to fall, scrape myself along the road and possibly drop and bust the container of milk, I eyed the area for alternatives. I needed a place to stop. And no, I couldn’t just stop because the weight of the milk threw me off balance.

To my right was a house with a fenced-in yard. I headed to it thinking that I could slow down and stop at the fence without getting off the bike. I was almost at a full stop when I put my right hand out to grab the top of the fence which jerked me to a full stop as the car passed the intersection.

My sense of relief was overshadowed by the sudden dull pain in my right palm.

So here I am on top of a bike that's too big for me, alongside a fence, my left hand holding a gallon of milk while maintaining contact with the left side of the handlebar. I look to my right hand and for the first time ever I notice that the top prongs of that fence are not bent downwards. Instead, they're pointing up to the sky and have chiseled ends.

I noticed that my palm rested below the sharp points of the fence tops. Unsure of what to do (I was just a kid) and with no other recourse, I pulled my hand up and saw a gaping, bloody gash that looked like the stigmata of Christ.

I panicked. I got off the bike, pushed it across Charles Street and started walking up the Willet Avenue my left hand holding the gallon of milk that was sloshing around while maintaining grip of handlebar. My right hand was bleeding, the essence of life draining out of me, and I was crying (remember, I was just a little kid).

Halfway up the road I saw two kids. I stopped them, show them my hand, and said, "Help me." One of the two took a look at my hand, looked at his friend, looked back at me and said, "Yeah, you're gonna die."

And then they left me there
in the middle of the road
to die
alone.

I freaked. I had to get home. My mom was a nurse. She'd be able to save me. I think adrenaline and self-preservation must have kicked in because I somehow made it home. I left the bike on the porch, walked into the house, put the milk on the kitchen table, and started to cry. (Remember, I was a little kid and that's how little kids get the attention of adults.)

Both my parents ran into the kitchen to see what's wrong. My mom took me into the bathroom and put my hand under the bathroom faucet to clean out the wound. I remember the feeling of the water rushing into the wound and then hearing my dad say, "Do we need to take him to get stitches?" I began to feel woozy and was about to pass out.

I think my mom poured rubbing alcohol into the wound and then bandaged it up. My dad put the finishing touches to immobilize my hand so I wouldn’t reopen the wound with some duct tape.

My mom asked me if I wanted to go get stiches. (Remember, I was a little kid. I knew what stitches were, never had them before, and didn't feel that this was the right time to experience that for the first time ever.) I told her I'd be fine.

As you can see, I made it. The kids were wrong, I didn't die. But I still have that almost unnoticeable scar on my right palm to forever remind me of that day.

And I still hate those kids to this day.