Dumb and Dumber – The Early Years


**Feel Good Friday is coming up soon.  What will YOU write about? 

It is funny how one memory triggers another. My dad and I have had a whole bunch of “adventures” and I will be sharing them with you over the next month. Eventually you will learn how we came to call ourselves “Dumb and Dumber,” and trust me, the name surely fits.


I was 5 years old and it was the day before our family vacation at a swanky golf resort that my parents had been saving up a long time for. This was their big “dream vacation” that they had dreamt of for 3 years.


It was hot and muggy and my excitement for the big vacay must have been driving my mom nuts because she sent me and my dad outside to play to she could do the packing.


My dad thought this would be a good time for me to learn how to ride my Brand New Schwinn bike that had an orange flag, a pretty basket and a white banana seat with yellow and pink flowers on it.


Man, I was so cool.


What was not cool, was that I did not have training wheels on this bike.


Dad thought that the two of us would sit on it and ride it together, so we did.


He sat in back and I sat in front and he pedaled while we both hung on.


Sounds like fun, right?


We got ¼ of a block down the road and I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I wanted to pedal.


I really wanted to pedal you see, because at age 5, I really knew everything, but dad wouldn’t let me, so I thought I would kick his feet off of the pedals.


I kicked him once, and he said “No”.


So, of course, I kicked him again, because of course he is going to see how I really want to do it and he is going to let me pedal, right?


Well, we didn’t get that far because my foot got caught in the spokes of the wheel. The bike jolted to a halt and we both flipped and flew over the handlebars. The bike flipped too with my foot still caught in it.


I just remember him carrying me all the way home. I was bleeding everywhere and he was pretty cut up too.


I remember screaming and a lot of swearing from my mom who was, justifiably, seriously pissed off at the two of us as my dad carried me up the stairs.


After about a half a bottle of Bactine and 20 bandaids, we were sentenced to watch TV for the rest of the day.


My dad still asks me if I have the scar on my forehead.


I do.


I didn’t touch that bike for the rest of the summer despite my dad’s pleading.


And I often wonder how much more blood I would have needed to get my mom to take me to the emergency room.


They must have really needed that vacation.

Me and Dad having a great time on vacation!
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