My son Max, who is 8 years old, had needed a new bike for quite some time.  His previous bike is four years old and he had outgrown it.  We have wanted to get him one but money has been tight.   It seemed like a good time to suggest that he earn some of the money and we would pay half of the cost of the bike.

Max worked hard and the money he earned he pooled with birthday money ending up with a sizable chunk.  Before we went to the store we had one requirement: that he set aside some of that money for savings and then the rest we would take with us.  He fell in love with a mountain bike he found and happily discovered he had more than enough money to buy it.  This gave us room to buy him a new bicycle helmet to go along with it.

He is on that bike everyday, in the morning before he goes to school, in the afternoon when he gets home, and right after dinner.  He will even try to take it with him on outings.  On a recent cub scout overnight in a museum “Please Daddy pack it for me.”  Luckily there wasn’t any room.

Yesterday for whatever reason Max was going through my dresser drawers.  I found this out when he came running into the office all excited.  He had found my old pair of skin-tight bicycle shorts buried in the back of one of them.  Of course they were buried!  I haven’t worn them in 13 years.  Not only that I’m 53 years old now and have grown a couple more pounds since then.  But he convinced me to wear them for the big bike race he has planned.

When I put the shorts on my wife began to laugh uncontrollably, read ROFLMAO!!  Thanks a lot, not much support there.  It got worse when she decided that she needed pictures of the racers.  I tried to sneak off on the bike behind her back but both she and Max started yelling for me to come back.

After my biggest fan (um, yeah right) finished with the pictures Max and I were off to the races.  We headed to the track at the school down around the corner.  The plan was to have 12 separate heats and the one with the most wins gets this huge trophy.  How huge?  I don’t know; Max has kept it hidden.

Finally we were at the starting line.  There’s the count down.  And we’re off!  Down the track we go, around the bend, we were neck and neck.  We saw the finish line.  The closer we got Max got further ahead until he sailed across, winning with seconds to spare.  We raced again…and again…and again.  Max was exuberant because he kept winning.  He loved the feeling of the wind blowing through his hair as he shot down the track.  He was popping wheelies as he won the races.

But then disaster struck.  As we circled around one bend Max was leaning to the side and staying just ahead of me when he hit some sand on the track.  The bike slide sideways and down with him spread eagled on top of it and his arms spread out.  As I pulled up to him he lifted his head and said calmly “I’m not okay”.  This was not his usual “I’m okay” when he falls response so I knew something was up.

He held it together until he stood up.  When he pulled his long basketball shorts up there were quarter sized gouges on his knees and his calves were covered with cuts.  He exploded but he also started to cry.  Max doesn’t cry unless he is really hurt; the explosions happen hourly.  He does not want his bike anymore it’s an f’n this and f’n that bike, he will never ride a bike again!

I convinced him it was the sand, not the bike, which had caused the problem, in his words “the f’n sand”.  I’m told by doctors that swearing is one of the traits of a bipolar kid.  We have been working with him to tone this down and he is getting better but at a moment like this I let him get it out of his system.

He was ready to go home, he was walking stiff legged, and he wanted to leave his bike.  I convinced him to at least push it; he tried to ride it but it hurt too much.  He walked again for a bit then hopped on the bike again.  He informed me he was going to ride as fast as he could home; he needed a band-aid!

When he got home he cried as he went in the door.  I put the bikes away, took my helmet off, and headed up the stairs to go inside.  The door opened and Max came flying out, “Where’s my bike?”  The hurt was gone, he just needed a band-aid.  He was already to race again.

What parent hasn’t gone through this?  Parents with adhd and bipolar kids will understand when I say that these situations may be a little more over the top than for most other kids.  But we get through it and our kids get through it and hopefully as they grow they keep their exuberance as they move through all of life’s hurts.