A Bicycle and Barbed Wire
Monday, July 22, 2024
Here’s another one of those childhood memories that left a scar; literally. This one is about the time I tried to stop my out of control bicycle using a barbed wire fence.
It was probably as painful as it sounds. Honestly, I can’t remember if it was.
Around the time I was stealing cigarettes from my mother, I was also learning how to ride a bicycle. Wicked step-father and mom didn’t want to teach me. I was simply handed a bike and left to figure it out on my own.
Self-reliance ended up being a theme throughout my childhood, and is a big reason for my reluctance to rely on others to this day. Mom thought she was doing me a favor, but I’m not too sure about that decision…
Anyway, the bike mom and wicked step-father brought home for me was a blue and white Schwinn girl’s model. I recall that it looked fairly new, so they must’ve spent some amount of money on it – but dammit, it was a girl’s bike. Thank god we lived on a farm with no other kids around. I would have been the laughing stock of my peers otherwise.
To teach myself how to ride, I would run along beside the bike, and once I was running fast enough, I would let the bike go so it would “ride” along by itself. I have no idea why my seven year-old boy brain thought this was the way to learn, but it just seemed right at the time.
This went on for a while with me losing and gaining interest in the bike. Eventually, I somehow learned how to balance and pedal. I can’t remember how, but it happened because I’m able to ride a bike today. I have a vague recollection that maybe one of wicked step-father’s adult sons had pity on me and took it on himself to teach me.
Not long after figuring out how to pedal without falling, I got daring and chose to ride down the quarter-mile long dirt driveway. On the left side was a barbed wire fence, on the right side was a big open wheat field.
Since I hadn’t mastered the art of using friction brakes, which way do you think I ended up steering when I lost control? You guessed it. I steered towards the barbed wire fence.
As I got close to it, I instinctively reached out for the fence to slow myself down. I quickly learned that one does not simply stop when grabbing barbed wire. Nope. One continues on for a bit as the rusty barbs tear into the palm of your hand before you wind up stopping.
I can’t recall the pain, but I do remember the blood. Lots of blood. Did I end up getting stitches? No. Should I have? Probably.
After ditching the bike on the side of the driveway, I ran back to the house screaming hysterically, clutching my left wrist while the blood ran down my forearm. My hand looked like hamburger and I was freaked out.
When I got to my mother, she inspected it, washed the cut, put Neosporin on it and wrapped it with a couple Kleenex and the funky pink paper tape she wore at night to keep the curls at her temples in place while she slept. I wouldn’t call it a good field dressing by any means. There was no tetanus shot, and there definitely wasn’t a doctor visit.
I don’t remember anything about the incident after that or how my hand went on to heal, but it did. I think I’ve blocked all of it out. I did go on to ride the blue Schwinn girl’s bike without hitting any more fences.
It’s been more than 50 years since this happened and I can still make out the very faint long scar in the palm of my left hand. I always go back to this memory when I see any barbed wire fence. It’s left both a physical and mental scar that has lasted a lifetime.