We went for a bike ride with our eight year old and her seven year old play date yesterday.

Something came over my daughter and she started swooping up and down driveways, taking risks she has never taken in an effort to show-off to her friend that overnight, along with turning eight, she became a daredevil and wanted the world to know it. Her seven year old audience giggled her on as she sped up the street, weaving in between parked vehicles, without looking back to see if her friend had survived the journey or where her mother (whereabouts unknown but possibly being chased by a turkey vulture) might be along the path.

She quickly headed for “the ramp.” The ramp that only the big kids dare attempt. The ramp that on more than one occasion has taken a boy’s pants and shrivelled them into a mesh hankie. The ramp that hasn’t been groomed, but does have a surprising amount of fresh gravel adding to the slippage and imminent danger/injury factor.

Before I had reached the end of the street, my eight year old was flying down the ramp with her feet straddled to the side, footloose and fancy free while screaming, “Nothing but A-I-R…..” Crash! The millisecond between her knees making contact with the pavement, tearing her new back-to-school leggings and sopping up blood, she actually managed to lift an arm and shout, “That was awesome! I’m okay!” before sobbing uncontrollably on the exhale at her torn pants and numerous fresh scrapes.

A parent does wonder, what the hell would possess a child who had never shown any interest in “the ramp” decide that today of all days, in front of her friend, she would act as though she built the ramp, jumped it often and had a bike that was actually equipped to handle such a steep curve followed by an unsightly, terribly painful landing. Which by the way, it did not survive, the frame is now bent, gears are no longer functioning and brakes? Forget about it.

Welcome to eight years old. We might be in for a bumpy ride.