A couple of years ago, Charlie Stevenson was asked to fix a miniature dirt bike for Scott Roser. When he fixed it, he road it to my house and said, "Bry, take it for a ride."
I was stoked. In the back of my mind, I saw myself as a full-tattooed Hell's Angel and I knew this mini-road trip was going to be the beginning of amazing things. I crouched down on the tiny bike, learned the gears and handles, but failed to ask one question, "Where're the breaks?"
Those mini-bikes can fly, as I did: down the driveway, out into the road, up the sidewalk of the neighbor's house and into their front porch. Charlie thought I was dead, but really I was stimulated by endorphins. I felt real good, even though my arms and legs were a bloody mess.
That night at the Rover (an Irish bar in Louisville), Charlie laughed at me. His wife, Alice, laughed at me. And of course, I laughed at myself.
I thought about this event yesterday while driving to SU and started to laugh again. Symbolically, I couldn't think of a better metaphor for my life. I turned into a giant scab, humbled by the fact that I couldn't drive a kid's toy -- let alone a real motorcycle. The whole event struck me funny and it will always put a smile across my face.
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