Look Ma, No Hands!

Since Gilligan and Mary Ann graduated from big wheels to training wheels, keeping up with them in my beaded flip flops proves out of the question. So, I hopped on my new mountain bike (used Specialized Hardrock for those of you keeping score) and tried to pull the old "Look Ma, no hands" trick while straightening my $12 sunglasses. Within milliseconds the handlebars spun around like the possessed girl's head from "The Exorcist."

Cursing the bitter divorcee that sold me the whirling death trap, I blamed equipment malfunction and did the obvious assessments: tire pressure OK, handlebars tightened, field sobriety, check. I gave it another go only after scanning the newly constructed road for railroad spikes, discarded hubcaps and rabid livestock. Horrified, I cleared the original time trial by just a hair. Only after the third rib splitting attempt did I reluctantly admit it might not be the bike.

As a kid I rode hands free for miles, turned corners and cleared the driveway lip while juggling my vat of Mountain Dew flavored Slurpee and a tin of shredded beef jerky. WHAT HAPPENED? Did I spend too much time peering into the microwave or sniff my brother's model glue one time too many? I'd like to blame it on birthing a litter of babies, but truthfully I had a c section and snapped back pretty well after that one despite a teeny encounter with congestive heart failure. And, many friends who've never been pregnant (male and female) have experienced the same cool sapping phenomenon.

Forget the Avian Flu this coordination destroying plague is reaching pandemic proportions. While admiring a family member's award winning road rash, she feebly explained "pogo stick mishap." One friend sideswiped the gas pump twice while nursing her diet coke. Fortunately, it was a company car, two separate gas stations, and she failed to escape since the pump was still firmly tethered to her SUV both times.

Still another pal broke her collarbone running to 1st base during a corporate softball game and later busted her wrist while busting a move to MC Hammer's "Can't Touch This" on the President's Club trip. (Yes, she got the promotion but it was contingent upon her promise to forego company athletic events).

Now before you go blaming gender don't forget the 30 something Dad who insisted on test driving his son's new motorized scooter Christmas morning. He made it 5 houses wearing his new sheepskin lined moccasin slippers before laying that bad boy down to the horror of the entire pajama clad neighborhood. He chose a red and green cast.

Advancing age (I'm pushing 40) and lousy genetics are my likely perpetrators considering one brother managed 5 broken arms before he was twelve and another one pureed his hand hang gliding. If a tainted family tree really is the culprit it's not looking too promising for my kids. Not too long ago both of their Grandmas fell into their respective window wells within a few days of each other. One was hauling a roll of carpet and the other one, well it doesn't really matter now does it?