Chain Gang….

We attempted (unsuccessfully) to go for a family bike ride after dinner last night. Unsuccessful in part because we were missing Daddy, a vital part of our family and also because one of our bikers opted to play the role of tire kicker as opposed to actually participating in the ride.

Our problems started when Hanna’s chain fell off during her warm-up lap around the driveway. With Daddy, our resident chain repairman unavailable to help, it was up to me, or the baby who was finally twisted into her special basket and wrestled into her hard hat was about to scream and sob for the next twenty minutes if she was denied her “bikreed!”

I haven’t been tasked with putting a chain on a bike since my yellow, banana seat broke down en route to the convenience store for a super-sized, paper bag of penny candy, but I couldn’t let the remaining players of our family down, I had to try.

I didn’t care about how much grease I got on my hands, calves, eyelids or otherwise but my efforts seemed to be solely focused on getting as much grease on my person as possible before the chain was rubbed dry with little progress in actually re-attaching it. I was dirty, I was frustrated, I had at least three helmet clad children screaming at me to get this bike in gear when it happened. My Cast Away moment, “I have made a connection!!!”

I did a quick victory lap of my own, nostalgically wishing someone would drive up with a bulging package of Swedish berries and encouraged everyone to follow our five year old up the street. As might have been predicted, the thought of getting back on the horse that bucked her off was a risk Hanna simply wasn’t willing to take.

I had one kid at the top of the hill, the summit of the mountain peak, the crest of the mini-bike ramp, the other, walking cautiously next to a bike that at any moment could spew a chain on the ground and potentially reflect a layer of grease on her severely betrayed, end-of-school-year running shoes.

The baby was indifferent about who was riding, who was walking, giggling when we rode slowly, sometimes yelling “wee” when we rode down a hill, sometimes frozen in fear, giving some insight into the combination of her two sister’s personalities she appears to be developing.

The five year old wiped out showing off as she flew down the ramp. She shouted through a helmet that now covered her face but left a tiny slit between her mouth and dangling chin strap, “I’m okay!”

The seven year old thought a rogue bird feather may have been caught in her spoke and readied herself to toss the bike so she would have a clear patch of grass to faint on.

Life would be boring if we were all the same.

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