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Why I Love My Husband, Part Two

In a previous post, I revealed the first of two events (that took place on the same weekend) that help illuminate why I find my husband Mark so darn lovable. I promised to follow up with a depiction of the second incident, but then got distracted by other things. (My districtability is, I hope, one of the things my husband finds lovable about me. Or at least tolerable.)

Anyway, I'm sure you've been holding your breath waiting for Reason Number Two, so here, at long last, it is:

Sunday afternoon, after church, Mark decided we should go for a family bike ride. Now, Mark has been an avid mountain biker for about 15 years. Traditionally, he meets up with several other men of exceptional skill and questionable wisdom, and they measure the success of their ride in mud and blood. I have resolutely avoided riding with him because (a) I enjoy my skin and bones in their present, intact condition and (b) I don't have a hope of keeping up with him, nor do I particularly want to. However, he promised this would be a leisurely family ride, no first aid kit required.

The poor man has not been able to ride much of late, having selflessly sacrificed his mountain time on the altar of family and work commitments. So, despite his promise that all would be mellow, he arrived at the car in full riding gear. We're talking padded shorts, special gloves, and the shoes that clip into his pedals. I've really got to get him a playdate with the aforementioned fellow riders soon.

Anyway, we went to a park that has nice, level riding paths, because our daughter Bethany had only had her training wheels off for a week and was understandably reticient about riding in traffic and/or tackling any slopes. For about 45 minutes, we circled the paths, occasionally branching off to ride around the bases of an empty ball diamond. Eventually, our son Ben and I grew weary of the riding and left to play a round of tennis at an adjacent court. Mark stayed on the paths and fields with Bethany for a little more bike time.

15 minutes later, Beth came rushing into the tennis court, breathlessly hollering, DADDY'S HURT!

Huh?

Sure enough, Mark came limping over the crest of a grassy knoll, the skin removed from all available elbow and knee surfaces.

"What happened?" I asked, racking my brain for a scenario that would explain how my riding warrior husband had hurt himself on a path appropriate for our tentative seven-year-old.

"Beth asked me to do a pop-a-wheelie," Mark winced. "I did one, and it went fine. But when I did a bigger one, I realized I hadn't greased my pedals in a while, and my shoes wouldn't release from the clips, and so I couldn't put my feet down, and the bike flipped over me."

"Oh," I said. "And the reason you needed to do a bigger pop-a-wheelie ... ?"

"Well, after I did the first one, Bethany said Kevin did bigger ones, so, you know, I had to do a bigger one too."

Kevin is our next-door-neighbor. Like Bethany, he is in the second grade. I'll have to see if he's available for a playdate soon.

 

Tags | Family
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