“Two-Wheel Terrors” by John Carenen

Gunpowder & Peonies

Two-Wheel Terrors

When I was a nice little kid, my two sisters, both older, conspired to kill me. Which is what big sisters do to little brothers.

My family decided it was time for me to overcome my reluctance and learn how to ride a “big boy bike.” I longed for the freedom, speed, and mobility a bicycle would provide—for enlarging my world. I could pretend it was my black stallion as I rode through the wild west righting wrongs and bringing outlaws to justice. Prim schoolteachers would swoon as I rode into small towns to free the people from outlaws. 

It wasn’t fear of riding. I was afraid of learning how to do it.

So, my family decided for me. My dad bought a second-hand relic, my sisters promised to teach me, and my mother agreed to worry. Sandra four years older than me, and Linda, two years older, then plotted to do away with me and make it look like an accident.

“Okay, pest,” Sandra said, “let’s get started.” Her chuckle from deep within her chest was alarming.

At this point I understood that normally learning how to ride a bike includes training wheels to begin with, then a gentle hand on the rider’s bony shoulders, guiding him. The gentle hand would eventually let go, the training wheels would be removed, and the smooth transition to riding a bicycle would be complete. My sisters scoffed at that approach; instead, they provided little brother a crash course in bike riding.   

I climbed on the bike positioned at the top of a sloping sidewalk on the west end of town, my sisters holding it steady. Then they slapped me on the back and gave me a strong shove. “Pedal, dummy!” Sandra shouted. 

“But how do I stop!” I wailed.

“Pedal faster!” Linda sneered. I did, picking up speed, getting the hang of it. That’s when I noticed a giant tree anchored just beyond the end of the sidewalk, directly in my path. I panicked.

I could hear my sisters laughing just before I crashed headlong into the tree. I flew over the handlebars and landed in a patch of weeds. And began crying. I tasted blood dripping from my upper lip. I blubbered some more.

“You big baby!” Sandra said, arriving on the scene. 

“Why didn’t you stop, momma’s boy?” Linda said, laughing.

“I d-didn’t know how to stop,” I sniveled.

My sisters laughed some more. “Guess we forgot to tell you how to brake!”

“You could have killed me!” I cried.

“Shut up,” Sandra said. “There’ll be another time. By the way, we should’ve told you to pedal backwards. That’s the brake. You’re so stupid. Do we have to tell you how to do everything?”

A couple of days later, when the swelling had gone down, I tried again, in private, armed with anger and experience, and embraced success. Thereon, for the next two years, mounted on my jet-black stallion, I patrolled the vast network of streets and alleys of urban Low Moor, humbly accepting the praise of shopkeepers, housewives, and blushing maidens as I made the village mine, safe, secure, and peaceful.