When I got my first bike before my third grade I was way too excited. I loved my Captain Hercules so much I would take her everywhere I went; to school, market, friends, and tuition, everywhere. I even taught a friend, who at the time was my best friend, to ride and had one or two scratches on my new bike. (But when his father had bought him a new bike, one day when I asked him if I could borrow for some time, he simply lied that the tyre is punctured when his bike was right there in front of me, whole and fine.)
Well as I was saying I used to take my bike anywhere I went. One day my mother sent me to my uncle’s shop to get something and I rode my bike to get there. My uncle’s shop was on the main road of the town but it was afternoon and there was much less traffic. At my uncle’s shop I needed to cross the road and I looked back and forth before carefully turning. I almost got on the other side of the road, swung my leg to this side of the bike and was ready to stop and alight when suddenly something hit me from side and next thing I knew I was being pushed with my bike into the bushes outside my uncle’s shop. It happened so fast I was blank for a while. I vaguely remember my uncle running to me, shouting for water and then I was out. When I opened my eyes I was in a hospital waiting room with my uncle and my father and had a deep cut on my right knee which was sewed by three stitches afterwards.
I learned that a speeding motorcyclist, who was talking to the pillion and not watching the road, had hit me and it wasn’t my fault at all (I still find it hard to believe though). And when I saw my bike I realized how lucky I was because my bike was snapped in two pieces.
Of course I got a new bike in a few days, this time a BSA, but it was never like my first bike which I loved dearly.