The Bro Code

The saying, "What happens in Vegas; Stays in Vegas" is over-done so I won't use it. Sometimes the details are best glossed over. What makes the kinship of friends through our journey of life so strong is often a knowing nod, a silent reference of understanding rather than a Odyssey-esque public explanation of say, a night of drunkenness that ended in a visit to a tattoo parlour, or a bike ride where some directionally challenged mates got too deep into the forest and ended up smoking pot with naked hippies in the Siskiyou's. These of course are just hypothetical examples to back up my point that on occasion, a scenario plays out whether planned or not, that is best stored deep in the cerebral warehouse where grey matter goes black. Like a vintage wine or a milk crate of old magazines, a particularly good story should be brought out for public consumption only after many years have passed. I guarantee you that a story about borrowing moms' car for a supposed trip down the coast to Santa Barbara that was really an all-nighter to Denver, goes over better 20 years later not the week after it happened. For example.

But how do you explain that to a 5-year old? To nonchalantly make the point, DON'T TELL MOM! My previous examples are of the Bro' Code. An unspoken commitment between friends that what goes down or is discussed on a ride along the river, for example, stays between the points of departure and arrival. Did Jeff Spicoli tell Jefferson to call his brother about wrecking his car? No, he remembered that his dad was a TV repairman and had an ultimate set of tools and that he could totally fix it. The difference between Bro's and Parent/Child teeters on teaching one's kid to lie. Enter my dilemma.

I can't say that all of my injuries as a youth are from bike crashes. Actually, bike crashes are in the minority of ways I've maimed myself. Race crash injuries even rarer still. One way or another, over the years I've sprained, broken, torn, cracked or separated pretty much one of every bone, joint or limb in my body. I've even been told that counting all of my concussions takes a full set of fingers. Some of which have been broken.  But for some reason, now in old(er) age, I've crashed more and suffered injuries that involve a little more that simply walking it off. So when I crashed out of a recent cyclocross race and couldn't move my shoulder but knew well enough that nothing was broken, I needed to explain to Gavin why I was out of the race early and convey the message that Mom DID-NOT-NEED-TO-KNOW without coming straight out and telling him to keep his little mouth shut.

His concern and questions only made his knowledge more of a liability. When Markie, who drove to the race with us, pushed that I not drive home, pointing out my inability to make the reach to shift to 3rd or 5th gears, G was captivated by the plot unfolding in front of him. It didn't help when G asked, Markie do you even know how to drive a stick-car? That my good friend answered back, I've done it once, I think I might be able to do it again.

By the time we dropped Markie off, the ibuprofen had kicked in enough that I was confident I could manage the cross-town trip home driving the stick-car myself. Markie unpacked his gear, G peed on a tree, we all said our good-bye's then Gavin said, Hey Markie, good job driving Red Car, especially since it was only your second time with the stick thing!

Finally home, I had G take a trip to the bathroom while I unpacked the car. Grimacing and finding creative ways to carry our race-day crap back into the house, I walked through the kitchen on my way to the laundry and over-heard from down the hall, G replaying the day to A while he sat on the toilet, NOT pooping. It went pretty much like this:

I made it all the way across the monkey bars, but Dad crashed bad and had to quit the race. It was a bummer because he was doing good. He wasn't in last place. He can't move his arm. I hurt my arm on a log. See that scratch? I might need an operation. It's probably broken like Dad's. Then Markie drove home because Dad couldn't. Markie has only driven a stick car one time before. He did really good though. I wasn't even scared.

The rest of the story is more of an altercation followed by a confession and later a conviction. It's not much of a story really. Maybe I'll tell you someday at dinner. In twenty years.