Watch your back

That ninja squirrel picture that my friend Dawnabon sent me reminded me of a squirrel story. When I was a kid, I'd often ride my bike around the block. I had a Huffy Desert Rose one-speed with coaster brakes. It was my first real big-kid bike, and I'd bought it with my own money after saving up First Communion and birthday money. When I picked it out (used) at the bike shop, I didn't have quite enough, and I remember the sales guy telling my mom and me to wait a few minutes, that he'd ask his manager if it was okay to lower the price a little since I'd saved up for it myself.

Anyhoodle, if you had a bike with coaster brakes, you know that they weren't the most responsive piece of equipment you could ask for. One day I was pedaling along at top speed, and a squirrel rocketed across my path. I slammed on the coaster brakes and just missed the squirrel, which launched itself at the telephone pole beside me for a last-minute escape. Relief!

Except the squirrel? Apparently not so bright. Instead of clinging to the pole or, I don't know, CLIMBING IT, the squirrel hit the pole and pushed off. It landed directly in front of my still-skidding bicycle. The tire just barely hit the squirrel, who let out a squeak, leapt straight up into the air, and then shot across the street and up a tree.

My dad has been known to forget how old I am and my sister's birth date, but he still remembers and tells the story of the time I hit the squirrel with my bike. Perhaps I really should be on my guard against squirrels. They may be nurturing an unfulfilled vendetta.