Holy Roller

March 3, 2009

Yesterday, I took advantage of a sun break (that’s right folks, in the cloudy Pacific Northwest, we have a phrase for the brief moments the sun makes an appearance on a cloudy/rainy day) and got in a bike ride.  Riding gives a person a lot of time to think; as I mulled things over, I uncovered this memory:

Growing up, I had a best friend named Melanie.  I also had a garage-sale bike complete with sky blue frame, a banana seat and the u-shaped handle bars.  One of the handle grips had come off, leaving the end of the metal pipe that made up the handle bar uncovered.   Melanie and I spent many a summer day riding our bikes up and down our street. 

Like many people in our community, Melanie was a Mormon.  I, on the other hand, grew up in a Catholic house and attended Catholic school. Melanie and I were very matter-of-fact about our different religions and sometimes squabbled over whose was better.

One day, as we rode our bikes in circles at the top of the hill on our street, we got into one of these squabbles.  I don’t remember what she said or did, but it spurred me to show off by reciting the Our Father while riding my bike hands-free.  About half way through the prayer, my front tire turned sharply, dumping me off the bike.  The grip-free handle jammed me in the stomach, leaving a cut in the shape of a perfect circle.  It wasn’t too deep and my pride hurt more than any body part.  I guess it was a good thing that I was praying when I went down!

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