I want to say the year was 1990. I was on holiday at a caravan park in France, with my mum, dad, brother, and some family friends. We had hired some bicycles and we were riding them around in a small circuit, which included an uphill and downhill section. I am getting uncomfortable as I write this!
I was going pretty fast, when I… I want to say that I panicked. Something led me to squeeze the bike’s brakes, and I flew over the handlebars. As I lack wings, I did not fly for very long, and I crunched upon the tarmac. Needlessly to say, I did myself an injury. For the most part, I was covered in scratches and cuts, including to my face, but the worse injury – one that set off a long spell of other problems – was that I broke one of my front teeth in half. This triggered a lot of dentistry, and eventually led me to have a permanent false tooth. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but one of my front teeth is not my own.
That accident greatly deterred me from riding a bike for many years. I physically could, but I wouldn’t. After a time, I did eventually get back on the saddle, though after moving towns, I stopped. I reckon I still could (after all, you never forget!), but I haven’t ridden a bike for some time. Fortunately, I bear no physical scars from my injuries (unless you count the false tooth), and I dare say I would comfortable getting back onto a bike, though nor am I in any hurry to. For the moment, I am content to rely upon my feet.