I still remember that day as though it was yesterday, even after forty-four years. For my fourth birthday, I was given a bicycle, a bicycle of my very own. I was so happy. I hugged my father with all my strength and said, "I love you, Daddy." I ran to my mother and hugged her and kissed her, then I ran to my bicycle and hugged it. "My bike, my bike!" I kept repeating over. I was the luckiest four-year-old in the world, for I had my own bicycle. It was red and silver with a black seat and white handgrips. Coming out of the handgrips were red and white streamers. On the left side of the handle bars was a crank bell. As I slid the lever back and forth the bell went "Brriinngg Brriinngg." On the back wheel, training wheels were mounted to aid me in my quest to become the worlds greatest bicyclist. My father helped me to get on my bicycle, and I rode with his help, for what seemed like hours and hours.

    That night, I wanted to bring my bicycle in the house, but my mother had her objections. She did not want any dirt or oil from my bicycle getting on the carpets. I promised her that I would clean my bicycle every night if she would let me bring it into the house. "Please mommy, please, please let me bring it in the house. I love it, and I don?t want anyone to steal it," was my plea. It was only after father?s assurance, that he would see to it that I had cleaned my bicycle that she finally relented and allowed the bicycle into the house. My bicycle, had to sit on sheets of old newspaper to offer additional protection to the carpets. I sat next to my bicycle, wiping it, cleaning it and examining each and every facet of it.

    As the days came and went, I became better and better at riding my bicycle. My father was a truck driver and was not at home every day. So, most of my learning was with my mother. As I learned to get on and off by myself, I needed mother?s help less and less. She had her own house work to do and everything seemed okay. I rode my bicycle around the back yard during the time I was permitted to be outside. Mother would come to the door and say, "Time to clean your bike, Honey." I would stop riding and clean my bicycle. When I was done cleaning it, mother would come out and inspect my bicycle. She always would wipe down the tires as she said that was the part that got the dirtiest. Then, she would help me carry it up the steps and into the house.

    One day after mother said that it was time to clean the bicycle, I was wiping it down and decided to turn it over and clean the tires. I had a hard time getting my bicycle wheels up, but, with extra effort I managed to succeed with my efforts. As I wiped down the bicycle I noticed that the pedals moved freely and that the back wheel spun as the pedals turned. I also noticed how the chain connected the pedals with the rear wheel. I was fascinated with this connection and examined it further.

    As I watched the pedals turn and the chain revolve around the sprocket, I was drawn to reach out and touch it. I would turn the pedals and run my finger along the chain as it moved along. The chain tickled my finger as it passed beneath my finger tip. Then it happened! The pedal came around and hit my wrist pulling my hand into the sprocket's path. My finger was caught between the chain and the sprocket. A tooth on the sprocket had pierced my finger breaking the bone. All that was holding my finger together were two small sections of skin on either side of the sprocket?s tooth. I was scared and crying, I yelled, "Mommy, Mommy" but mother could not hear me. In a panic state I placed my feet on the bicycle and pushed against the bicycle with all my strength. There was a sickening "PLOP!" as my finger came apart, blood started to gush everywhere. I grabbed my right index finger with my left hand and ran up the steps crying, "Mommy, Mommy!" As I got to the top of the steps the door came open and there was my mother.

    I said, "Mommy look!" as I opened up my hand to show her what had happened. She saw the blood and said "Oh My God!" She rushed me into the house and called the police, they seemed to be there within seconds, they took me to Children?s Hospital. Enroute to the hospital, I was allowed to sit on one of the officers lap in the front seat and along the way I was allowed to play with the lights and siren. The next thing I remembered was waking up in a hospital room with my finger wrapped up with white gauze.

    Years later, I would be told how close I had come to dying. I had lost so much blood that I was passing in and out of consciousness. That was why I could not remember how long it took for the police to arrive, why the police allowed me to play with the lights and siren, and why I could not remember getting to the hospital. I was told that my bicycle was in such a bloody mess that the officers could not find my finger tip. It was later found by my father, but it was to late for it to be re-attached to my finger.

    I would not be allowed to have a bicycle again until I was almost nine-years-old, but that is another tale in the life of Lloyd Keith Jackson McCown.

Moral of the story: I was too young and too inquisitive to be left unsupervised. I just wanted to do a good job, and I learned a lesson for my lack of knowledge.