This is my idea of a race track.
Motorcycles and bicycles have been racing around me my entire life. My Dad and four brothers popped wheelies, peeled out and have enough road burns to prove it. That being said it wasn’t a surprise that my son Sacha wanted to feel his wheels too. What is the expression the bike doesn’t fall far from the track?
How could I tell him no, when my husband, Mr. Have-No-Fear-Himself, (who could easily win, "Fear Factor" if he wasn’t a vegetarian,) bought Sacha a helmet, shared his daring tales, and encourages Sacha to ride with the wind? I could hear the "men" talking, and the baby bond breaking. Shop talk and boys, I know that passion, I have seen it a million times in my Father’s shop on a Friday night.
I waited for the first fall. It came this weekend.
Sacha came proudly walking in, showing me his wounds as if trophies! Red bloody patches, gashes and his favorite jeans riped beyond repair, could not take the smile off his face. He seemed baptized by the dirt!
The initiation to manhood. Welcome son to the freedom to fall and dust yourself off and claim in worthwhile of every ache and pain.
I am scared…but I am my Mother’s daughter, and she never said no.
photos: typepad is under construction today and I’m having trouble downloading. I will add some of Sacha and his glorious trophies later in the day.
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