“They both fell down the hill on their way to our house. They are fine, but both came over the hill sobbing…”

These are the sorts of texts I get from my sister when I send my kids over to play with their cousins. This time was different, however, because they begged to bring their bikes, and, well, you can deduce what happened from there. I knew I should have wrapped them in bubble wrap.

Being a country kid with a bike on these hilly, gravel roads makes for a different type of childhood, one that inevitably scars you for life on your elbows and knee caps and under your chin. Ask any kid raised rural and they will likely have a little piece of rock wedged permanently under their skin.

 

And my kids, they don’t really have a chance, there are only hills around here, the first one they have to climb just to get out of the yard. But they were determined to make the trek, failing to mention that Rosie, my five-year-old, can’t work the hand brakes on her new bike. Like, her hand won’t reach. Which explains why, at the downhill, dirt road cut across, Rosie got going too fast and (in her big sister’s words) faceplanted at the bottom. And then, in solidarity, or maybe more like panic, Edie decided not to move to avoid her, but to crash as well, lifting her chin to avoid the faceplant and managing only to run over the tips of her little sister’s finger (I’m paraphrasing here from the report I received when I got home).

My husband, who was working in the garage at the time, heard a side-by-side come down the road and turned around to find my little sister delivering two little dirt balls soaked in tears (and a little blood. Edie wants to make sure we all know there was blood.)

Oh man, if that isn’t going to become a core memory, nothing will. I have a similar one of my own from when I was about Edie’s age. My best friend and I decided to take her parents’ 1980s style skinny tired bikes with handlebar brakes and seats that were set too high for us a mile and a half to the neighbor’s. All went well on the flat highway, standing up to pedal the whole way, but the image of my friend gaining speed on the steep downhill stretch on the gravel road, topping out at 75 MPH before those skinny tires slipped out from under her and sent her little body scrape-bouncing across the rocks, still haunts my dreams.

Yes, the rite of passage of summer kids riding bikes with friends on quiet suburban streets hits different out at the ranch, just like most things. Like make sure you wear shoes to the playground in back because the Canadian thistle is bad this year. And watch out for cow pies, they got in the yard again last night. Wear shorts at your own risk when you’re climbing that rock hill. Check for ticks when you come inside. Make sure you put the frogs back in the dam when you’re done with them.

Quit bringing pet grasshoppers in the house. Watch for snakes.

Test your brakes…

“That bike ride was traumatic” I texted my sister last night before bed after administering an ice pack to Edie’s wrist.

“I bet Edie still hasn’t recovered,” she texted back. “They were covered in dust from head to toe!”

“You should have seen the bathtub!” I replied.

Happy mid-July. If you need me I’ll be administering band-aids and bug spray.