Blood sloshed from his nose. There was a hole where his front teeth should’ve been. He was gurgling.

I thought: I’m in SO much trouble.

The Kick N’ Go Scooter Commercial from the 70’s

The Honda Kick ‘N Go scooter

Cherry red. The best present a parent could give a 10 year old.

I felt like I was flying when I mashed down the pedal with my back foot to launch myself forward. The brakes were on the handle bars.
But who needed brakes?

It was awesome. A 10 year old’s dream!

My buddy Jason

Jason lived in the house diagonally behind ours.

We spent gobs of time in his back yard and mine. We rode bikes, we swung on our swing sets. We raced to every door in our neighborhood Trick or Treating on Halloween.

We conquered a tree house fort in the biggest tree in the biggest field that we could imagine — just outside our neighborhood. We were Pirates. Cowboys and Indians. We were Robbers and Thieves. We were kids.

We were a little scared of the farmer who owned that field though. Legend had it he would chase kids through the field shooting buck shot in the air to make them pee themselves. Kids would hightail it off his property with wet shorts.

Rumor had it that one kid got hit by buckshot.

We never saw the farmer OR his gun, but we were always on alert. The older kids who told us about him, made us believe that he was REAL.

That scooter was life to me

The scooter was a thrift store find, so, it wasn’t brand new.

But it was new to me.
I loved the feeling of riding that scooter.

The Kansas wind furnace blasting my face in the mid-summer sun.
As a kid, nothing better.

This Was Mine. I loved it. When I was on the scooter, time was nothing.
When I couldn’t go outside I pleaded with my mom, yearning to ride the Kick ‘N Go.

See, Most of my life had been about performing for others.

Trained by a banker dad and stay at home mom to pretend everything was ‘perfect’, I never showed my feelings.

No one was let in, no one too close. They didn’t want people to know the real family behind the perfect façade.

“Pretend life” was what was practiced and taught.
My parents put my sister and I in theatre classes. We got used to memorizing lines, singing songs, thinking on our feet and being comfortable performing for a crowd.

But everything was a performance.
Criticism was my family’s love language. Never too much encouraging.
Always, ‘You can do better.’

And we did get better. But never good enough.

Perform right, act right, know your place.

The scooter was freedom

The wind was alive. How fast could I go and close my eyes and fly back and forth down our neighborhood street? I was going to find out.

So fast. So Freeing.
Innocent. Alive.
I didn’t know what it was, but I didn’t wanna let it go.

Jason wanted to ride it

I flaunted the scooter around Jason. He always was asking to use it.

I always put him off.

I had this weird fear that I wouldn’t get it back. That he would feel what I felt. That he would distract me — grab the scooter and hide it in his garage under a pile of junk.

“Can I Ride the Scooter?”
“Can I ride Your Scooter?”
“Hey, can I ride it NOW?”

“In a minute, I’ll let you ride. In a minute.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”

The Fateful Ride

On a late summer day I scooted over to his house. He begged me again.

On that day, I said, ‘Ok’.

And Off he went.
Up and down the street.

Freewheeling fun, wind in the hair, smile as wide as an 18-wheeler truck grill. Lots of fun.

Then he made a turn toward his driveway.

Now, in our subdivision our driveways had curbs. The driveway didn’t meet the road — it curved upward — a big bump, so every time you hit the driveway with your two front car wheels, you knew you’d made it home.

Well… that was disaster for a Honda Kick ’N Go Scooter.

Driveway Meet Face

Jason came barreling toward the driveway, but the wheels on the scooter halted as he hit the curb. There wasn’t enough momentum for the scooter to make it up and over.

Jason’s body didn’t get that message.

The scooter stopped, while he careened forward over the handle bars and ground his face into the cement pavement.

I ran toward him. All I saw was the back of his head, blood on the driveway. He pressed his body up off the hot pavement. Dazed.

Blood sloshed from his nose. There was a hole where his front teeth should’ve been.

He was gurgling.

All I could think was, “I’m in so much trouble.”

I lurched ahead of him toward the front door of his house. Blood on the driveway. Blood on the sidewalk. A scream-wail coming from behind me.
It was a blur.

I Don’t Remember the Rest, But I Know This

I can’t remember what his mom said to me.
I do remember that Jason had to wear a mouth guard and a special retainer during the rest of Middle and High School.

Needless to say, we didn’t hang out much after that.

I like to think that it was because we grew apart, had different friends and differing interests.

But I know there was anger. I could feel it in his cold looks.
I’m pretty sure he didn’t vote for me for freshman class president.

I was never able to apologize.

I still wonder what happened with his teeth.
Does he still wear head gear?

No idea.

But I do know that I never saw that scooter again.