Mike the Clown
When we moved to our new neighborhood, Bruce’s friend Mike McGinny became our friend. He and his uncle moved around the same time we did, and none of us knew anyone yet, so the three of us stuck together—riding bikes all summer long.
Mike was a walking (or riding) accident. Most of the time, he wasn’t even trying to be funny—it just happened. Like that time at Ganesha Park when we were flying down Snake Hill. Mike missed the curve, went off the road, and somehow his bike got stuck in a tree. We never figured out how.
Bruce and I were both in Little League that year, and the three of us rode our bikes to every game. One day on the way home, we were racing. Mike was out front, flying downhill, and turned around to see how far ahead he was—just in time to slam right into the back of a car that had pulled onto the road.
We thought it was bad. Mike went flying, the driver jumped out—but somehow, Mike stood up, brushed off, and was completely fine. Not a scratch on the car either (they don’t make ’em like that anymore). We straightened Mike’s handlebars and kept racing.
Another time, we decided to ride out to my cousin’s house, about 3 or 4 miles away. It had rained the day before, and the roads were still full of puddles. We were having a blast splashing through them. Mike, always trying to one-up the fun, pointed to a huge puddle surrounded by traffic cones and yelled, “Watch this!”
He veered off the road and rode straight into it—only to disappear into the water, sinking all the way to his neck.
What really sent me over the edge was the horses in the pasture nearby. They all lifted their heads and let out loud whinnies, like even they couldn’t believe what they just saw.
