If you fall off your bike, get back on and recycle

The other day I had a brilliant idea: traffic is bad, but I am in dire need of chinchilla food and a sappy romantic novel… I must bike.
I had never really biked anywhere for an errand before. The usual reasons: too much traffic, too dangerous or too far away. And yet, Target and PetsMart were just close enough for me to try it this time. So I did.

I strapped on my helmet and put my cell phone and credit card in the pocket of my running shorts. I swung one leg over the seat of my dad’s too-big bike and began to pedal. The weather was wonderful, warm and breezy. I navigated down my street, down another, through shortcuts to the bridge. I suddenly realized that if I was going to pick up pet food, how was I going to get it back? I had no backpack, only my arms… and I kind of needed those to hold on. I figured I’d just hang the bags from the handlebars. Maybe I should have dwelled on that problem a little more.

I biked swiftly down the streets of private neighborhoods, beating the cars because I ignored the frequent stop signs. I soon entered the public shopping district, and crossed the street into the Target/PetsMart parking lot. At those two stores I bought what I needed: chinchilla pellets, dust bath, and Twilight, by Stephenie Meyer. Errand completed, I put my two bags on the handlebars, a seemingly safe distance away from the front wheel. I got on and began to ride, awkwardly gesturing to the car behind me that I wanted to turn right. (I really need to get a hang of those hand signals.)

I was biking happily along for awhile until one of the bags got caught in the spokes. I would have been very concerned about this turn of events except, by the time I noticed, I was already on the ground. I watched the world invert itself as I flipped over the front handlebars. The whole experience was made all the more disorienting by a shower of chinchilla food from one of the ripped bags.

A nice lady stopped and asked if I needed help. Looking down at the shredded bags and the chinchilla food strewn all about, I nodded. She was a great help, and I was able to put my things in a new bag, remaining pet food and all. She also offered to put my bike in the back and drive me home. I declined, however, both because I didn’t want to inconvenience her and because I couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating. After all, I’d convinced my dad that my little excursion would be safe; wiping out in the middle of the Target parking lot might have suggested otherwise.

In any case, I waved as she drove away and got on the bike again. I put my arms through the holes of the plastic Target bag and thus fashioned a ridiculous looking backpack. (I hope I don’t end up in a video on YouTube.) The palms of my hands were scuffed up a little bit, but I otherwise escaped unharmed… thankfully. Perhaps I have flipped off the front of my bike so many times that I instinctually know how to avoid injury in such a situation. Or maybe I just have exceptionally good bone density from all that running. For whatever reason, I am very glad that I was not worse off, and that I didn’t have to accept my diploma with one arm in a cast. I suppose it was reasonable for me to get in one more life lesson before leaving high school behind.