It was one of those sticky Saint Louis summer evenings in the late 1960s, the kind when the air felt thick with both humidity and the restless energy of childhood. My family was getting ready to visit some of my parents’ friends, the kind of outing that felt endlessly dull to a kid who’d rather be anywhere else. I had managed to get dressed early, and as soon as I was ready, I asked my mom if I could ride my bike for a little while before we left.
Her answer came quick and firm—“No. You’ll mess up your clothes.”
I tried again. Maybe I couldn’t ride my bike, but could I at least go hang out with the kids playing on the street behind our house? I promised I’d be back in fifteen minutes, no more. Mom hesitated, then relented. “Fifteen minutes,” she said, “and don’t get dirty.”
I sprinted out the door before she could change her mind. At the top of that street behind us, a whole pack of neighborhood kids had gathered—ten or more, shouting and laughing as the summer day began to fade. One boy, a little older than me, was showing off his new bicycle. It was shiny and sleek, with curved handlebars and thin tires that looked like they could fly. When he offered to let me take it for a ride, I didn’t think twice.
I started down the hill, the wind rushing through my hair, the world blurring into streaks of light and sound. The street was steeper than I’d remembered, and the bike felt different—too light, too fast. I tried to slow down, but the brakes felt foreign beneath my fingers. That’s when I hit it—a jagged hole in the pavement I hadn’t seen in the fading light.
The next thing I knew, I was airborne. I sailed over the handlebars and came down hard, face-first. Pain exploded through my chin. I screamed. The older kids came running. There was blood everywhere, bright against my dress shirt.
Instead of going to my parents’ friends’ house, we spent that night in the emergency room. A few hours later, I was patched up and sent home—humbled, sore, and a little wiser.
All these years later, the scar is still there, though hidden now beneath my beard. Every time I run a hand over it, I think of that summer night, of being young and impatient, and of learning—painfully—that sometimes Mom really does know best.
Every scar tells a story, and this one reminds me of the restless kid I once was—eager to prove myself, certain I knew better, and forever chasing the kind of freedom that only came with two wheels and a hill too steep to resist.
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