Head Over Heels

There was nothing better than putting in a good day’s work as a paperboy. Throwing that last folded newspaper from my carry bag onto a covered porch was a feeling of accomplishment. All of about fourteen years of plenty, I pedaled into the proud sunshine one afternoon after my run. Riding my bicycle with no hands, I started to twirl my empty denim carry bag over my head. It made a cool helicopter blade noise that occupied my adolescent attention. Not satisfied with life unfurling in the moment, I increased the speed of my bike. Catching the varied directions of the wind, I spun that bag in every direction with my free hands. That is until the bag wedged between my bicycle spokes and I felt a violent jar. In essence, I inadvertently slammed on the brakes at 15 mph. I actually left my bike behind me as I dove overtop of my handlebars damn near in front of the house of a hot-blooded Italian girl who caught my fancy. I traveled such a great distance in the air that I actually had time to ponder my cruel landing or wave tragically to the girl I was smitten with. Flying headfirst without the safeguard of a helmet, I had little choice but to land on my arms and elbows. I slid harshly across the blacktop and the road ate my flesh with hardcore efficiency. I laid prone, a bloody mess with gravel touching bone.

When you are happy and you know it and you really want to show it clasp your hands. Temper your emotions on a paper route and around women or risk going head over heels.