My dad keeps asking me if I want to “get back on the horse.” He’s been saying this ever since Sunday when Alejandro and I fell simultaneously off my parent’s old tandem.
My mom and dad convinced Alejandro and I to go riding with them. They were on a decidedly more modern-looking tandem than the classic model they let us ride.
Now every time I casually pass my father he asks if Alejandro and I need to “get back in the saddle.”
Aside from the weird innuendos, I find my dad’s questions irrelevant because he is wrong. We don’t need to “get back on the horse.”
We already have. News flash, we didn’t teeter over right next to the car after we finished the bike ride. We fell at break-neck speed on the path leading to the car with 10 to 15 minutes of riding left to go.
We didn’t walk our freakish two-seater bike back to the car, heads held low. We didn’t let the fact that the handle bars had dislodged perpendicular to the wheels stop us from continuing.
No. We got back on that goddamn horse with blood dripping off our hands (my hand, Alejandro’s knee, elbow, shoulder and hands).
And so what if we used up the entire first-aid cabinet covering our flesh wounds? We are champions. Champions who have tamed the tandem and lived to tell the tale.