The Training Wheels Come Off

I still have a scar on my right thigh about the size of a quarter. I got it when I was about 6. I had just gotten the training wheels off my first bike, and aimed to serve notice to the world that I was officially ready for the big time. As I rode down 92nd St., I got it in my mind that I should challenge some imaginary slalom course around some imaginary cones, so I started weaving back and forth. On about my third course correction to the left, the right handlegrip came off in my hand, followed quickly by the bare, chromed steel of the end of the handlebar plunging into the flesh of my thigh. Lots of crying and blood and bandages -- but not much time -- later, I was back on the bike, challenging the cones . . . and for safety's sake, learning to steer one-handed.

Lessons learned:

1. Bill Cosby was right, children are born brain damaged. How do we ever make it to adulthood?
2. Consumer product safety was still lacking in 1969. These days, I would have had a nice lawsuit.
   
3. One day I will know what I think I know. Whether it's how to ride a bike, or how to choose a high-deductible health plan with a tax-advantaged HSA.

I'm mindful of that other exhilirating and horrific "first" when I was 6 as I take an ownership stake in my own little corner of the blogosphere. I've read, commented, bookmarked, copied, pasted and printed from other people's blogs. But this is my first time hanging out my own shingle. This is me with no training wheels, folks. Let's see if we can do it without the blood this time.