One of Five Times I’ve Broken a Bone: Part Two

In 6th grade I lived in a tiny two bedroom apartment on Hibiscus St. with my mother and my sister.  I rode my bike a lot then–on the porch and down and around the dead-end loop that was my street.  The road ended at the parking lot of my aparment building, but not before climbing an enormous hill.  That paved mountain of a back yard was lots of fun on two wheels.  My sister and the only other neighbor our age would ride together almost nightly.

On this afternoon, for some reason long ago lost on me, I was riding the neighbor girl’s bike instead of my own, even though it was too small for me.  She was a couple of years younger, and tiny, but I pulled my knees to my ears and rode it anyway.

The huge hill curved to the right and out of sight of those standing at the top.  My sister and the neighbor stood watching as I shot down the slope on the teeny bicycle, the tops of my thighs smacking the pink rubber-covered handlebars all the way down.  Once out of sight I tossed the bike gently to the side and layed down on the ground next to it.  I screamed for my sister and friend, yelling that I’d crashed only to laugh uncontrollably when they came jogging down.

For an 11-year old that is a pretty cunning trick, so I had to do it again.  After they took a few turns I did the exact same thing, only this time it wasn’t as easy to get them to come running.  I had to plead and insist "I’M NOT KIDDING THIS TIME!"  They finally came to my aid looking thoroughly worried.  Haha!–gotten again. 

Life was good.  I was 11, riding bikes after school, fooling my sister and having some laughs.  I was feeling pretty invincible.  So, I mounted the bike for a third sail down the hill, and I was almost around the corner when my too-long legs sent the handlebars  akimbo causing me to flip over the bike and meet fast and furious with the ground below.  The bicycle landed on top of me.

I tried to get up by propping my weight on my left arm, but I learned quickly and in a horrifying amount of pain that my arm was broken.  I screamed for help.  I heard nothing in return but echo of my pitiful plea.

I lay crumpled and covered by a bike on the street for ten or fifteen minutes.  I tried, but I couldn’t get up, the pain was too hot and searing.  Finally a neighbor drove by and called an ambulance. 

Once at the backwoods Ashland City hospital they realized the break was too severe for them to handle.  They wrapped my mangled left arm in a magazine and duct taped it up.  I was transported to a Nashville hospital wearing a glossy, yet sturdy, Vogue magazine on my arm.  The nurse who saw me right after I was admitted laughed out loud when she saw it.

Anyway, if you are wondering I learned my lesson.  I don’t ever fake it anymore.  Nothing good ever comes of that.