One day in the late 1970s, a boy was biking along a little stretch of New Brunswick’s rural route 108 in the small farming village of New Denmark, along the Salmon River.
His bicycle was a blue and rusty hand-me-down CCM girl’s bike, handed down from an older cousin.
He’d learned to ride himself, without training wheels, since it didn’t have any to begin with. It didn’t have tires yet, and this was because his father – who had new tires for him in the garage – was away for a few days following yet another argument with his mother.
So, over the course of a couple days, he taught himself to ride by rolling down the driveway on the rims, figuring out how to keep his balance, and to mitigate the rough ride by just not sitting on anything… which, in the hindsight of later years, made him grateful it was a girl’s bike to begin with.
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Now, albeit a rural route, this road was always full of extremely huge transport trucks, delivering timber, potatoes, gravel or whatever needed to be hauled at breakneck speeds from point A to point B, using this road as the delivery route.
His young mind had never heard the concept of wind shear before, so when the 18-wheeler that bombed passed him on the road that day blew its air horn to make sure he was as terrified as he could possibly be – his 75-pound body, like Dorothy, travelled to Oz.
When his parents came home, he blamed his bruised face on a nasty fall down the stairs. But he just had to pretend he didn’t know what had happened to the mailbox.