This year Mom turned 56 and Dad will be 61 in November. Last weekend they called me up nice and early and insisted that I go on a bikeride with them. The majority of the trail was asphalt, winding around a picturesque lake and over the coolest dam I have ever seen. The thing looked like it was straight out of the future – very alienesque.
Before we reached the dam, Mom wanted to take the fork in the trail the other direction. We ended up climbing a massive hill – so large, I had to hop off my bike and walk it the rest of the way up the hill. Mom and Dad made it further than I did. “C’mon, Bug!” they yelled, using the nickname they had used since I was a toddler. I huffed…I puffed….I made it. Mom wanted to continue riding down the other side of the hill but Dad and I protested. “We are NOT going to ride back up a hill as steep as the one we just rode on,” he announced. I crossed my arms and nodded in agreement. Mom tried her best, but she was outnumbered. We made the descent, clutching our brakes tightly, knuckles white.
I expected the ride to be over shortly – just around the other side of the dam and back to my Jeep. Little did I know, I was in for a big surprise. “Let’s go on that mountainbike trail we did last time,” Mom suggested. Dad thought that was a great idea. “What? You guys went mountainbiking?!” I was shocked. My mom is an overly cautious woman and my dad likes to spend most of his time sitting. They insisted we go on the dirt and gravel trail through the woods. “What’sa matter Bug, think your parents are too old to mountainbike?” I was mystified. At this point in time we were just about to pass over the dam. To the left of us was a low cement wall that looked wavy – stony pieces jutted out of it, so it appeared to undulate. The path was very narrow here. Mom came up on my right and edged over a little to far. Suddenly I lost control and smashed into the cement wall, toppling over and scraping my leg on the cement for a yard or two. A nearby family stared in astonishment – their little boy who sat on his training wheel-clad bike grinned at me. Mom and Dad exclaimed, “What happened, Buglet?!” Sometimes they took “Bug” and added variations to it. Buglet, Buggie, Bugster, and El Bugleto.
“My leg just ate cement is what happened,” I snapped, rubbing it tenderly. It was already puffy, red and throbbing. Dad readjusted my bike and I limped over to it, gingerly getting back on. “Alright, mountainbiking!” Mom chirped. I groaned.
The mountainbiking ended up being more pleasant than I thought it would – despite my injured leg. We twisted, kicked up gravel and wound through the woods, skidding over rocks and spewing dirt. The hills weren’t too bad, the weather was delightful and I must say I do enjoy the scent of forest. Finally, we’d made it through the mountainbiking trail and back onto asphalt. At this point we’d biked at least 5 miles. Back at the Jeep, I sunk into the soft driver’s seat cushion. I was tired, sweaty, my leg ached, my crotch was sore from the seat, and I wanted nourishment in the form of icecream.
I looked at my parents and said, “You two still got game.” They smiled appreciatively. I wondered what would be next – parkour, perhaps?