Running Down a Teenager with my Bike

In the moments before the accident, his beady eyes shone with mischief as his prepubescent 'stache waved in the breeze. His two best mates were nearby, watching, and his heart was full of bravado under the influence of peer pressure. His vehicle of choice was an undersized pink and yellow razor-scooter-thing, and he knew he was fast. He exuded pride, the pride that only comes from too much testosterone flowing through a medium-sized body and a tiny brain. He whizzed from behind us when Jordan and I were peddling across the street. He bravely cut between Jordan's and my bike and then confidently cut me off, crossing in front of my bike, while I was at a pretty good speed. In the instant when time slowed before the collision, terror pumped that familiar mom-adrenaline through my veins. I was sure that I would flip my bike and the trailer with the littler girls if I hit him head on; so I braked, so as not to hit his body. As the majority of him passed before me, I avoided the worst possible collision and instead, 350 pounds of bike and trailer and Mizell women of all sizes ran over his skinny legs and his goofy little undersized scooter.

In the instant after I ran him down, anger at the danger to which his carelessness had exposed myself and my girls consumed me, and I stopped my heavy self, bike, and trailer to address this little hooligan. I had a lot to say about his manners and his mother, but I never got the chance. I must have been pretty scary because he picked his miserable self and his pink scooter up and ran like the wind. (He looked remarkably like the deer that ran straight into the side of our car in west Texas. It was so stunned at its own stupidity that it picked itself up immediately and then fled until shock set in.)

The anger lasted all of five minutes until the reality of what had just transpired dawned on me, and I began to laugh uncontrollably, not just chuckles, but belly laughs that made me cry. Every time I remembered running over this kid, I started laughing again. I laughed on my bike, in front of friends at school, and all afternoon. All during the day, people looked at me like I would look at someone who is criminally insane, someone who hears voices. I just couldn't stop laughing. I was laughing so hard that I couldn't stop to fully explain what had happened, which made me look all the more crazy, which made me laugh harder and harder.

I want to be an insightful woman, one who thinks noble thoughts, one who helps people and contributes to society, but today is proof positive that I am not that woman yet. The truth is that I am really a brown alien with a funny Texas accent in a foreign country. I run over teenage boys with my bike and then laugh hysterically about it all day long like a mad woman. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to stop chuckling long enough to work on being deep. Today I just hope teenage boys will have the sense to stay out of my way (and that the kid's mother will not find my blog).