Bicycles and Betrayals

Lessons Learned on the Playground of Youth

If only there had been a loud and incessant warning on this delicious summer morning. But the only things reigning significance were hope, possibility, and the need for adventure to satiate my 7-year-old spirit.

And with all things hopeful, the Universe delivered.

Neighbor Sarah lived up and across the street with her mother, Darla, and boyfriend, Mark. I remember Mark being kind to me, and in our suburban Seattle home, I counted that as a huge win.

The demographics of my early youth wove a rich and beautiful tapestry that set the tone for a lifetime of love and curiosity for cultures worldwide. Sarah was African American, and my best friend Noel was also a person of color. I most likely never asked her ethnicity because my youthful brain could have cared less. I was looking for kindness and kindred spirits; thankfully, a few showed up at the right time.

Sarah had a few more years than me and a suitcase full of ways of knowing how to be in the world that I still don't quite understand. I worshipped her powerful ways of owning the neighborhood without even caring that she was the queen.

Her ebony skin glistened in the morning sun. When the invite came to ride our bicycles up to Latona Elementary for a quick run around the playground, I eagerly grabbed one of the wayward Schwinn bicycles from the front yard.

I don't remember ever asking permission to go on this outing, but chances are, I did. The Mama birthed eight children in 10 ½ years, and she was clear about her decree for keeping her apprised of our whereabouts.

And we were off! Flying across cement sidewalks, dodging intermittent wayward vehicles, and coasting toward that glorious and vast expanse of unforgiving concrete. Upon arrival, I ditched the Schwinn and raced toward the gigantic steel rings swaying in the gentle morning breeze.

I gazed at their mighty circumference and epic height and backed up to give myself maximum trajectory. I leaped with all my being and rapidly fell back to the ground.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the recently dumped Schwinn watching from afar. That's it! I grabbed the handlebars to set the bike upright and quickly approached the behemoth rings swirling above. I immediately fell into 'Operation Conquer Rings' and completely forgot about Sarah. I'm sure she was around, and in these later years, she was smirking and laughing at my feeble attempts to access those elusive rings. Thankfully, I had no idea how 'not funny' things would become in lickety, split time.

I placed my faithful Schwinn, my 'Saturday Morning Savior,' underneath the bars and parked it solid, with the kickstand bearing its bulky weight. Those Schwinns were built to last and exuded a supreme confidence that lent its rider much prestige on the bicycle circuits of our youth.

And upward I climbed—onto the seat of the Schwinn, reaching skyward—until—CONTACT! My youthful hands encircled the rings, and I was airborne at last! I began swinging back and forth, feeling the small currents of wind as I swirled around and around. Looking out over the car-lined streets filled with rows of houses, I could finally see above and beyond from this spectacular vantage point of confidence and joy.

And then, I stopped. Watching in stunned silence.

Sarah hooked the kickstand back into its secure case and slowly walked my Schwinn bicycle away from me.

I was. Incredulous.

I cried out, "Sarah, please put it back!" a look on her face told me this was a perilous moment, and I was at the center of this epic nightmare. I resorted to begging and pleading with every ounce of my being, and then the tears began to flow. My small, uncalloused hands were starting to throb, and I could feel the blisters forming with each new desperate grasp on the ring.

I noticed that with each incessant gasp for help, Sarah was becoming more and more enthralled with my suffering and had zero intention of coming to my rescue. I'm not sure if I was more pained from the betrayal of friendship or the fact that my hands were becoming increasingly numb and nonfunctional.

And then it happened. My grasp slipped, and I spiraled downward, landing in a large SPLAT upon the gravelly and serrated concrete. And it was done. I was alive, Sarah was nowhere to be seen, and I was now faced with 'Operation Get Lissa Home' even though I was in a traumatized and injured state.

Unfortunately, the days of whipping out a cell phone and calling The Mama would not be possible until 20 years, so I weakly hobbled toward the Schwinn, wiped away some wayward tears, and began limping toward home.

After that fateful morning on the playground of my youth, I never spoke or played with Sarah again.

As a young person, I was bewildered and distraught by her ability to observe me swinging like a carnival clown whilst immensely enjoying my pain and suffering.

Like so many things in life, I did not find my answers until many years of living passed by.

Maybe it was because I came from a very large family and represented something Sarah wanted but would never have. Or perhaps it was the beginnings of sociopathic tendencies, and I should consider myself lucky.

On either count, I'm grateful. That July morning, I learned some valuable lessons that have been my guiding compass my entire life.

When someone shows you their true essence, pay attention!

Walking away from a pained relationship is ALWAYS an option.

Kindness matters ~ today, tomorrow, forever.

And most importantly,

When challenges arise, as they so often do, tackle them head-on. You bravely and courageously add one more valuable instrument to your 'ever-growing' toolkit of unique and coveted superpowers.

Own them as though your life depended upon it because sometimes, it does.

*This story is drawn from real life, with a sprinkle of creative license. Names have been changed to protect their privacy.