A Personal Plea: Talk To Your Kids About Bike Safety Before It's Too Late
Two scary incidents, one lesson. The critical need for bike safety awareness.
This afternoon, my 21-year-old son stopped by to help me with a quick gardening task in the front yard. As he was helping me fill a large, ceramic planter with soil, two middle-school-aged boys on bikes whizzed past us on the sidewalk. Seconds later, I heard the screech of tires, a thud, and a splash. I dropped the pile of dirt in my hands and took off running for the nearby intersection.
The first thing I notice as I approach the small, blue car that has stopped abruptly in the middle of the intersection is the reddish/orange fluid sprayed all over the pavement.
Oh my God.
But then, I see a crushed, plastic Big Gulp container next to the pooling colored liquid — and a young boy lifting his bike off the ground. It’s clear he’s trying to get back on the bike and ride off.
“STOP! WAIT!” I shout, holding up my hand and walking up to the kid. “Are you okay?” I have no idea how hurt he is (if at all), and I sure as hell don’t want him riding off. Had he just been struck by this motorist? What the hell just happened?
The young man in the car hasn’t gotten out yet, but through his open, driver’s side window, I can see he’s sweating heavily.
“What happened?” I ask the driver, standing next to the boy so he can’t ride off.
“He came out of nowhere,” the driver says, clearly shaken. “I’d just waved his buddy through the intersection, but this one came out of nowhere,” he says, clearly confused and concerned. Turning to the kid as he steps out of his car, he asks, “Are you okay, man?”
“I’m fine,” the boy insists, rubbing his leg.
I immediately flash back to 2015 when my own son — the one helping me today — called me after having been hit by a car on this very street. My piece about that experience was published in the Chicago Tribune.
What is it about middle-school boys — I think — and why don’t any of them wear helmets????
After speaking briefly with the driver and the boy, it’s quickly clear that both of the young bikers had failed to stop at the corner; they just flew into the intersection without looking for cars.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen drivers blow the stop sign at this corner, but that wasn’t the case today. This driver had come to a full stop, waved the first biker across the intersection, and then proceeded forward — only to see the second rider shoot into the street from seemingly nowhere. There hadn’t been time to stop before the biker slammed into the driver’s side door.
I asked the biker if he remembered the accident. Yes.
If he’d stopped and looked before entering the street. No.
If he’d hit his head. No.
If he’d applied his brakes. No.
If he was hurting anywhere. No.
I could see a scrape on his right elbow, though, and I’d already seen him wincing and rubbing his leg and his groin.
“I think we should call a parent or an adult. Can you do that?” I ask.
At first, he says no one’s at home…that they’re at a softball game (???)…but I refuse to let him leave the scene. At this point, a neighbor and the mailman also stop and encourage the kid to have a parent come.
In the meantime, I’m checking in with the car’s driver who’s still in a state of shock.
“I feel terrible,” he says, and I completely understand. When my own son had been hit by a car, a blind spot had prevented the driver from seeing the pack of boys my son was in as they crossed a driveway. Different circumstances, but similar results, including a situation that could have ended so much worse.
It’s 70+ degrees out today, so I ask the driver and both the boys if they need water. Everyone declines.
“I really want you to call your folks,” I say to the biker. “If they’re not around, maybe there’s another adult you can call?”
“K,” he relents, finally pulling out his phone. He pushes a bunch of numbers but doesn’t hit send. “I really think I’m okay,” he insists.
“I believe you,” I say, wiping my dirty hands on my sweatpants so I can brush my hair back from my face, “but if you can’t get a grownup to come, I’ll have to call an ambulance to have you checked out, so it’s really your call.”
I’m sure this kid is freaking out inside, trying to hold it together. Is he fighting tears and panic? I can’t tell. I just know that I’m not letting anyone leave this scene until a parent lays their eyes on this kid — and this driver can leave with a clear conscience.
The boy finally puts the call through and begins a conversation with his dad…but when it’s clear he’s not able to articulate what’s just happened, I step closer. It occurs to me he might be afraid to start crying on the phone…and worse, in front of his friend and a bunch of strangers. Plus, this kid may not even know exactly where he is…
“Do you want me to tell him what’s going on?” I ask.
“Okay,” he says, handing me his device.
“Hi,” I say into the phone. “I’m Christine, and I’m with your son. He’s okay, but it seems he just ran into a moving car. Can you please get over here?” I tell him our cross streets.
The dad says he’ll cancel a meeting and be right here, so for the next five minutes, we wait. The driver texts his wife to let her know he can’t get to her; she’s just finished her first day of clinical work today as a mental health professional. The flowers for her, waiting in his car, will have to wait. He’s no longer sweating as he speaks to the young riders.
“You guys, that really could have been so much worse. If I’d been going any faster, you might have ended up on the hood of my car.”
“Or under it,” I add, pointing to my son, “like him.”
The boys’ eyes grow wide as I explain that, when my son had been hit, the license plate of the car had left an indentation in one of his legs.
The driver then points out that, when today’s collision happened, the kid’s upper body went partially into the open driver’s side window.
“If you’d been going any faster,” he says to the young bicyclist, “you could have ended up in my passenger seat.”
With that thought, we all stand together in the heavy silence of what-ifs.
This whole time, the kid’s expression is one of embarrassment and fear.
Good, I think to myself. I hope this experience scared the living shit out of him and his friend.
As we wait for the father to show up, I exchange a knowing glance with my son, who’s now by my side. I have no doubt we’re both thinking back to his experience — and how lucky he’d also been when he was hit.
When the kid’s dad shows up, we walk him through everything. Once he acknowledges that his son is relatively unharmed, he says everything I’d have hoped he would—and more.
“Where’s your helmet?”
“Do you realize how much worse this could have been?”
“This is DAY ONE of summer vacation!”
“We’re going straight home and having a serious talk about bike safety.”
“You know you were at fault here. You know that, right?”
Then, the dad turns to the driver and says, “I appreciate that you stayed until I got here. I’m really sorry this happened.”
The men shake hands, and then the dad heads home with the young bikers.
Now, it’s just my son, the driver, and me.
“I hope you’ll be okay,” I say to the driver, knowing how shaken he is. “It clearly wasn’t your fault.”
“Thanks,” he says. “Yeah, but I still feel so bad.” Extending his hand, he says, “I’m Omar, by the way.”
“Christine,” I say. “And this is my son, Nate.”
Unbeknownst to me, Nate had run back to the house and brought back two cans of seltzer water. “Would you like some water now?” Nate asks Omar.
“Wow. Actually, thank you,” Omar says, taking it.
Nate holds up the second can. “Here,” he says. “Give this one to your wife when you see her.”
Relief washes over Omar’s face, and he takes the second can. “Thanks, man.”
“Tell your wife congratulations,” I say, thinking about how today’s a perfect example of why we need good therapists in this world.
My personal plea:
Please talk to your kids about bike safety before it's too late.
Please wear a helmet.
And, for a comprehensive guide on bike safety tailored for young readers aged 10-13, parents can visit Bike Safety for Kids.
Christine Wolf is a former columnist with the Chicago Tribune. She’s the co-author of Politics, Partnerships, & Power: The Lives of Ralph E. and Marguerite Stitt Church. A memoir-writing coach and public speaker, she’s also the founder of Writers’ Haven Evanston, a cooperative workspace for women writers. Get in touch at christinewolf.com/contact.
Oh, Christine! I've got goosepimples on my skin and tears on my eyes reading this. I am SO GLAD you were there. And Nate's kindness to the driver (and his wife) was so beautiful. Thank you.
I'm behind on my reading but sooooooo glad to have scrolled back through my inbox and found this post. xxx
This was such a tense read Christine! How lucky everyone was that you were there to look out for everyone. Very tough to do after something so traumatic!