Too Much Fun
by Adrienne Garrison | April 2022
There is, unequivocally, such a thing as too much fun. It may have taken me 34 years to learn this, but it is true. Let me tell you how I know.
It was a green-gold morning in May (days like this are just around the corner for us, you’ll see) and the absolute perfect weather for our inaugural family bike ride on a local creekside trail. Snacks were packed, helmets counted, and our grown-up bikes bounced merrily on the mount behind the car. We got to the trailhead, connected all the bits and bobs, and set off—my husband pulling our 2-year-old in the yellow bike trailer, and my daughter towing along on a tandem attachment behind my bike. Up we went, over the bridge, left at the roundabout and on down the trail. Once past the cow farm, the air was delicious, scented with honeysuckle and ringing with birdsong. We were such a happy bunch.
It couldn’t have lasted long, right?
In my side mirror, I could glance at my 5-year-old daughter grinning along behind me, shouting hellos to everyone we passed. Her attached seat and handle matched mine, but her little wheels–not attached to a chain or gears—pedaled along to nowhere. Approaching a hill, she would spin and spin to “increase our horsepower,” and I humored her, pumping along, too deliriously happy to feel tired. We paused to listen for blackbirds and stopped at the goat farm where chickens and ducks crowded the fenceline, appalled that we had not brought them food. We crossed a road and, before we knew it, were nearing the end of the trail—as far as we’d ever gone before, anyway.
“But what’s under the bridge?” I asked my husband. “More trail?” More sunshine on my face? More birdsong? More idyllic family togetherness, wind in our hair, smiling at every stranger?
“I don’t know,” he answered, “probably just a turnaround taking you up to the road.”
“Let’s go see.” Under the bridge we went, up a switchback, and there before us was … a road.
Alright, momentary disappointment, but there was the whole trail to enjoy on our way back to the car, right? Coasting down the switchback, I felt free. And then I felt … too free. I squeezed the handbrakes and heard pea gravel popping under my tires. Our bicycle built-for-two technically only had brakes built for one, and the extra momentum from my daughter behind me made it impossible to stop. I careened toward the grass, terrified of launching her into the creek, still squeezing the brakes for dear life when I flipped over the handlebars and crashed, face-first into the pavement.
But weren’t you wearing a helmet? Yes, of course. But it did nothing for my face, you see. A little too fast, a little too “fun mom,” and I was sprawled on the trail trying to roll myself over as my husband rushed to check my daughter head-to-toe. She’d landed primly onto the grass. Me? I had a concussion, a gash over my eyebrow, scraped chin, ruined sunglasses, torn ligaments in my hand, pebbles embedded in my knuckles, ripped leggings, and a bloody knee.
My husband wheeled us all back to the point where we should have (why didn’t we just?!) turned around and I found a bench while he rode back as fast as he could for the car. I sat there, dazed, slowly realizing that when my children were not in my direct field of vision I was entirely forgetting they existed, (yay! concussions!) and just sort of unspooling into misery as acutely felt as the joy throttling through me just minutes before.
Sweet friend, we both know it has been a long. two. years. Is there a part of you that can’t quite bear to reach toward hope again for fear of crashing face-first into more disappointment? Let me tell you, it took me months to get back on that bike. My right hand, my writing hand, was oddly the last thing to heal after the accident. There have been good and beautiful pieces of us dashed to the ground a few times recently, don’t you think? Are you wondering when, and even if, you will recover?
So, there is such a thing as too much fun. I learned this in a full extension of merriment and lived to refuse to regret it. Standing on this side of things, here with you, I have a pocket full of stories to tell. Crash-and-burn stories. Stuck-at-home stories. Simple-joys, refusing-to-quit, survival stories. As the days stretch longer and the warmth wakes all that has been waiting to bloom, I pray that you’ll gather your stories up, too. Share them. Hold them close. Set them free.
And make new ones.
Love,