When I was about seven years old (1964) the world, including my parents, was completely okay with little kids riding their bikes a couple of miles across the town to visit the variety store.
No helmets, no sunscreen, no hydration in the 110°F desert heat. And we left the bikes outside unlocked without a second thought.
To buy candy. Root beer barrels. Wrigley's Juicy Fruit gum at five cents a pack.
But I polygress.
The bike ride was on streets except for one place where you could save about half a mile by cutting across an undeveloped lot. There was a beaten path along a minimum-length diagonal from the one boulevard to the back of the drugstore parking lot.
All was well until some construction-type asshat needed to get rid of about three yards of sand. He went out into the middle of the path in the middle of the lot and dumped a mound of dry sand.
So there I am biking along and thinking of the money in my pocket and its value with regard to things like Brach's cinnamon hard candies vs. green army men vs. plastic model glue (and yes any kid could buy it in those days). Turning across the vacant lot and up the path, I see the lump of sand. No problem. But...
There is a reason you don't see too many bicycles at the beach. The pounds per square inch on bicycle tires make you sink into dry sand way deeper than a footprint. I ended up slogging down to a complete stop about one and a half bicycle lengths in. Hm. Time to get off and walk it back to the beaten path.
Where was I going with this? No, not the drugstore. I mean, yes, the seven year old me was going to the drugstore. I think a squirt gun claimed my money that day. Shaped like a Colt 1911, fit my had perfectly, never leaked -- you could fill it up and keep it in your pocket for emergencies.
I meant where was the present me going. Only this: some days, some times, my whole mental/verbal ability is down to about the level of trying to bicycle through dry sand. Your mileage may vary, and it probably depends some on the width of your tires.
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