What is the deal with firstborns? They are bossy, they are know-it-alls, and they have a perpetual "anything you can do I can do better" attitude. Sometimes, they really do know it all, and really can do everything better. But not always. Oh, no, no, no, mama, not always.
I have two sisters, Elizabeth, the old one, and Suzannah, the runt. This story is about Elizabeth Faye McCord, and they day we all thought she had breathed her last.
When I was in the 7th grade, I was a BMXer. I considered myself quite the two-wheeled wizard, as I could bunnyhop over a curb, and ride my bike down a full set of steep stairs behind our local hospital. In Siloam Springs, Arkansas, that is what the BMXers did. I had a blue Free Agent Maverick, and atop that puppy I was more Maverick than Tom Cruise could ever dream. I had pegs, front and back, to complete my ride, and although I never used them for anything but giving "pumps", I know I could have pulled a sweet 50/50 grind if only I'd had a good rail to thrash. I was what you call a "poseur".
Poseur or not, I was a much more skilled BMXer than Elizabeth. She thought otherwise. Of course she did, she could do anything better.
So, when I had made a ramp out of scrapwood, Elizabeth decided that ramping was easy. I had it down: go as fast as I could, then bunnyhop off the lip to get the most air and distance. I could glide like floss for a good 3,000 plus mms through the air, and land it every time.
So when Elizabeth told me that she could do it, I figured she could. She's my older sister, and was naturally gifted at doing everything better than me. I even let her ride Mav, my blue beauty.
Elizabeth rides a few laps around the block to get accustomed to my cycle, and I coach her up on standing up on the cranks and mashing 'em out to get to full speed. She didn't exactly reach mach 3, like her younger brother, but she got close enough to ramp. So when she was ready, I told her "pedal as fast as you can up to the ramp, then coast the last few feet. When you hit the ramp, pull up on the handlebars, and fly this mug like ET." She followed every step to a t... except one.
She was cruising. Even I was surprised at how fast she could pump those girl legs on the pedals. She was cruising well over the speed limit. Her red hair flailing in the wind like Xena on a stallion, she coasted the last few feet like Dave Mirra ready to take the X-games gold (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dave_Mirra for reference). She hit the ramp and started escalating up the incline at a higher than safe speed.
And then she froze. Oh, like an arachnophobe watching spiderman did she freeze. I made eye contact, but there was nothing there. She was glazed over in utter confusion and oncoming terror. She took a guess at the last moment; she had a 50-50 shot of being correct. Pull up on the handlebars, or push down. Up, Down. The demon on her left shoulder launched an angry bird over to the angel on her right and blew it away, then that evil little demon calmly told her to push down on the handlebars. She did. Quiet effectively.
Front tire nosediving into the pavement, it stopped on forceful contact. However, the rear of the bicycle continued on its arc, launching my helpless sister into the air, where she most definitely flew like a G6 (again, reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GvgJEznqtms). My entire family, a few neighbors, the mailman, and a boy in her freshman class down the street, watched as she soared textbook spread eagle through the air. Her hair flailed, as before, but less like Xena and more like the poor chick that just pissed Xena off. She struck the pavement with a thud, followed by a resisting skid accompanied by tearing sounds. The tearing of flesh as it clung to the pavement as her body slid on. Her body came to a rest, and she laid there. Not a sound, not a movement.
And then her afferent sensory fibers came screaming from her brain to reach her raw tissue, as she came screaming to her senses. Quite literally.
"MOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!! AAAAHHHH AAAAHHHHH MOOOOOMMMMMYYYYY!!! MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY".
And there, in the middle of the street pronely plastered to the pavement was my 15 year old highschooler sister, screaming for her mommy to hold her in her time of death. She thought she was dying, and she had me convinced. I've killed many a bird, squirrell, and rabbit in my day, but I'd never heard any of those poor creatures scream so horribly in their deaths. So I just assumed that she was dying in a worse way.
And she continued to lay there, not moving her body, but screaming, over and over, "MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!!!". She had reverted back to three years of age. My parents rushed over to her, and managed to peel her off the asphalt like a stubborn strip of IV tape. Swatches of Elizabeth's epidermis accessorized South College street, followed by the blood that freely flowed after the dam of flesh holding it back was removed. She was a bloody mess, with no skin left on either of her under forearms, knees, or chin. And still she screamed for her mommy. As my dad has since said, she "laid there in a pile screaming like a banshee."
For that day, with Elizabeth being a three year old, I was the eldest child. And in her pathetic state, I'm pretty sure I could have done anything better than her. Except for crash. She is the master.
Oh, and the bike was okay. Which is good. People heal, bikes not so much.
I love bikes!
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