During high school we used to pile our mountain bikes onto the back of our friend Steve's car and drive to a BMX track a few towns over. We'd ride through the open track, enjoying the rhythm of the jumps. After we'd grown pretty complacent, Steve was riding the track and came down wrong on his front tire, twisted it and fell on his bike taking the end of the handlebar right in the side of his skull. He wore a helmet but the handlebar crept up beneath it. This was before people took head injuries as seriously as they should. We got him upright, and he was okay except for a trickle of blood creeping down from his temple. That and he kept calling our co-worker Shwartzbauer by the name Schwarzkopf. It was around the time of the first Gulf War. Steve drove us home as always, but instead of getting on the highway he took a very circuitous route all around town. In hindsight we probably should have driven him to the hospital.
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