When I was 10, I remember getting ready to go outside to ride my bike and my grandmother stopping me to say, "Be careful." Of what? I wondered. I had been riding my bike for 5 years, didn't she know that?
My early memory of bike riding was much different. My mother was holding on to the back of the seat as I was learning to ride and keep my balance. I asked her not to let go -- but she did -- and I ended up in a rosebush.
Somewhere in a family photoalbum is a picture of me looking like I am wearing war paint because of the Mercurachrome covering all the cuts from the thorns.
My mother still gets much abuse about "pushing" me into that rosebush.
