Had “Darwin Awards” existed in 1946, Gene Covell and I would have made the list.   It could easily have been awarded posthumously were it not for the fact that guardian angels look over little kids.  The stunt Gene and I dreamed-up seemed do-able at the time.  Sure, in the bright light of hindsight it was as doomed as the wax wings of Icarus, but like that Greek, we were boys.

School had been underway for a month; our first year since VJ Day and everything seemed bright. Gene and I had been riding our bikes, jumping curbs, making skid-sideways stops, racing one another, carrying on shouted conversations from bike to bike, and generally doing whatever came to mind.  I don’t which of us hatched the notion but we decided that if we rode our bikes side-by-side, close enough to reach the other’s handlebars, we could steer one another’s bikes as we pedaled along.  There were obviously many physical laws we hadn’t learned that would figure into this stunt, but like the twins, Ignorance and Bliss, Gene and I had confidence.

We did not pick a smooth street for our trial run.  Gene lived on Third Street, a busy truck route.  Like many streets in Caney in its early years it was paved with bricks.  Over years of use their surface was corduroy.  Every truck, and many of the cars passing through town rumbled over Third Street.  Other than two spring-busting dips at Spring Street there was no reason to drive slowly.   And that’s the street on which we tried our “You steer me, I’ll steer you” stunt.  We sidled in close to one another, with Gene nearest the curb.  In front of Dr. Bridenstine’s house we took our hands off our handlebars and reached across.  History was about to be made.

We could blame our failure on being startled rather than on idiocy for just as we placed our hands on each others handlebars we heard heavy tires coming up behind us and the trumpet of a truck horn.  If it were possible to view an instant replay of what happened we’d probably see that upon hearing those sounds I, being closest to the traffic, turned toward the curb.   But I was turning Gene’s bike.  Gene, seeing he was about to hit the curb, turned away from it.  But he was turning my bike: right into the wheels alongside me!

The truck belonged to the “Joe E. Smith” company, a cigarette, candy, jobber with offices next to the bus station.  The driver was quick.  The front bumper and wheels missed me.  My shoulders and head bounced off its sides, pushing me away from the rear wheels and into Gene’s bike.  We went down in a tangle of shock, fear, and pain.   The driver got out, babbling apologies and “Are you okay’s?” then hustled me to Dr. Lambdin’s office where the old doc’ pronounced me well.  

I didn’t know the word for it, but I thought a box of candy from his truck would be reasonable compensatory damages.  However the day when people won money for damages arising from their own stupidity had not yet dawned.  The driver took me home unrewarded.  My parents, probably embarrassed by their “idiot son” and feeling my bruises were punishment enough for my lunacy sent me to bed and dropped the matter. Gene and I did not ride together much after that.