Anyone who says he has a high threshold for pain never got his toe caught between chain and sprocket on a bicycle.
In the early 1950s I got a new bike for Christmas, a shiny Western Flyer that Dad bought at the Western Auto Store in Iola. When I awoke Christmas morning, it was sitting by the tree.
I rode the bike a bit then, but ice and snow delayed most adventures until later. When the weather warmed, it and I seldom were separated. My friends and I would meander around Humboldt — and then ride like the dickens at mealtime to congregate at one another’s houses for impossible-to-beat home-cooking.
One afternoon I wheeled the bike out into the alley and carefully steered across an old concrete span over a big drainage ditch — another of my favorite places to play.
Out on the street, my foot slipped off the pedal and somehow — a mystery to this day — under the chain guard and between chain and sprocket.
I must have screamed bloody murder, because no more than I had hit the pavement, Mom was running toward me. The side of my right big toe was ripped open. Tears poured down my cheeks and Mom was beside herself.
We finally extracted the toe — more pain, if that was possible. Mom talked about a doctor, but decided with the experience she had had with childhood injuries she could handle this one.
Washing the wound was no walk in the park, and a heavy dose of methylate put beads of sweat on my forehand. Mom swore by methylate.
Once bandaged the wound felt a little better.
I never road a bicycle barefoot again. And I still have the scar and a slightly deformed big toe to show why.
