Hardcore Bikers and Random Speed Bumps

Tim Demetres

            Manitou Road. Home to many wonderful memories and some very painful memories. When my family first moved to Westport, my parents picked out a nice house on a street off of Ferry Lane down by the beach. If one were to see a bird’s eye view of Manitou Road, it would look like a distorted circle. It was a friendly neighborhood so there were always people working on their gardens outside and speaking to one another. When I was in the first grade, I realized how good of a bike rider I was. Everyday after school I would go out and ride around the circle like some gang would patrol their turf.

            There were three speed bumps placed along the circle and depending on how confident I was in my biking skills I would gain a lot of speed and momentum and fly off of the speed bumps. I thought to myself, “Maybe I could do this professionally, you know, be amazing at bike riding for a living!”

            One weekend, my family and I went down to Long Island for the weekend to visit my grandparents. It was torture, trying to survive that weekend without patrolling my circle. When we got home on Sunday it was too late to go out for a bike ride so I had to wait yet another day to ride my bike. But what I didn’t know was that while my family was gone for the weekend, another speed bump had been installed on the road for the safety of kids like me.

            Monday afternoon came and I was feeling good. I ran off the bus and all the way up the road to my house on Manitou Road. I threw my stuff down at the door and ran to the garage. Nothing was going to stop me from rocketing through Manitou Road. Not even the garage door that got stuck on the way up. I grabbed my bike and slid it under the door, then I crawled under the door myself, feeling like Indiana Jones as I did so. I made sure my Converse high-tops were tied up tight because they were going for the ride of a lifetime. I hopped on the bike and continued to speed away on a full on adrenaline rush and what seemed to be at a ludicrous speed.

            I was flying, seriously. I didn’t know bikes could travel so fast without some kind of jet engine or something. I sure was moving like a bat out of hell. I started to approach my favorite hill on the road. It reminded me of a waterfall because of how the road was flat for so long and then right after a certain turn, the road would just slope down pretty steep. I built up my speed for the hill. As I descended down the hill the size for gods, I could really feel the adrenaline pumping. My stomach was floating and my head was in the clouds.

            I noticed a change in the road. From my view it looked like a dark line across the road. I realized it was a speed bump. How could they do this to me; put a speed bump on the road without consulting me? This was my road; no one alters it without my permission. It was entirely too late to slow down.

I decided landing on the grass would be a better place than the concrete. I tried to swerve the bike over to the grass, but instead I just launched off of the speed bump at a very odd angle. This speed bump wasn’t just a smooth, flat speed bump; it was in the shape of a capital letter “A.” While I was hurdling through the air, I spotted what I was going to land on; the concrete. My plan had failed. I braced myself for some serious pain.

            I slapped the concrete like my dad would slap the pool in a belly flop. I rolled on the concrete like a baker would roll your daily cinnamon bun. I felt the skin on my knees split open, my elbows scrape, and my palms get cut. I finally stopped rolling and quickly stood up to get my bearings. I realized how much I got bashed up and started to head home. Rather than bike home like a sensible person would, I decided to walk my bike home for some odd reason. Maybe it was because I had put shame to my loyal bike, causing it to leave some paint behind on Manitou Road.

            When I got home my mother started flipping out. I knew this was going to end my career in professional bike riding; my mom would never allow it after an incident like this. She led me to the bathroom and sat me down on the toilet so she could patch me up like a tailor would patch up your favorite pair of jeans. I remember looking down at my legs and seeing that they were scraped up and down and every which way. The bottoms of my arms were the same way and my palms stung like a thousand bee stings. My mom wanted to help me get better, but as soon as she appeared in the doorway with this peroxide solution, I knew my life would end as I knew it. She poured it on my legs which was such a horrible stinging feeling it made we want to pass out.

            Later on down the path of recovery, I was all bandaged up and I did not want to move. I spent the next two days just lying down and watching television hoping it would all get better quickly.