Riding the Rocks

My first bike. Dad spent hours puffing along behind, holding onto the seat until I could balance myself enough to take off on my own. I finally got the confidence to ride without assistance, but not the smarts to avoid hazards.

I would ride my bike into the back yard and jump off, leaving the new bike on the ground when I came home.

One grey day, I took the turn into the back yard too wide and ended up riding down the long steep rock garden.

I had often walked over the boulders that graced our sloped back yard. As a seven year old, I knew every rock personally. Most were off white, but some were nearly black. My favorites were the rocks with sharp corners, and it was fun to slide over the smooth ones.

My innards nearly shook right out of me, as I bounced from rock to rock, boulder to boulder. I couldn’t tell which rocks were which at this speed. I hung on until I reached the bottom, after a fifty foot ride straight down.

Once at the bottom, the bike, with me still aboard, just fell over. I screamed like a teenage girl at a horror movie, with my hands still frozen in the riding position.

Mom had never ventured to the bottom of the stairs that divided the rock garden in half. She had never experienced walking over the rocks, or even gazing at them from the stairway. But once she heard my scream, she made her maiden voyage down the steep stairs in seconds, the rocks blurred in her peripheral vision.

Nothing broken, no scrapes or cuts. I was OK. But I started walking my bike into the back yard after that day. What’s the word for “fear of rocks”?

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