Sunday morning, I slept in a bit (for me, I mean...I was up by 7:00 though, so perhaps that's not "sleeping in" to most folks), and when I got up, Dylan was nowhere to be found. I ate breakfast and took the dogs out and that's when I noticed that, although his bike was parked exactly where it has been for months, my bike was gone. He had gone off on my bike again for an early morning bike ride. I figured he was easing his way into asking if he could take MY bike back to Florence for his second semester of college, so I'd already prepped him with gentle reminders like, "RIDE YOUR OWN FUCKING BIKE." Perhaps I was too subtle.

The issue with his bike, I think, was that he needed to install some valve adapters to the tires and inflate the front tire (I had to deflate it to take it off to put it in the car a while back). I bought the valve adapters months ago though, and I even put them right in front of the microwave so there was no way he could claim he didn't know where they were...but they just sat there. And because he never took the time, all two or three minutes of time, to put them on his bike, I suppose he felt justified in taking my bike...over and over and over again.

It was a warm morning, though, so I decided, instead of standing in the kitchen, staring at the valve adapters, slowly getting angrier and angrier that my son was gone on MY bike, that a better thing for me to do was to go for a run....which is what I did.

I was about 3.5 miles into it when the rain started, and I doubled back for a few minutes thinking I'd cut my run short, but when the rain slacked off, I turned back around and kept up my usual 5 mile route. The little detour added a couple of minutes to my typical run time, but it wasn't exactly as if I had anything pressing to get accomplished, no real reason to race back home.

When I got home, however, I grabbed a towel to dry my hair some as I picked up my phone to see what I'd missed. I was SHOCKED to see that I had missed one text message and eleven calls from my son. The text message, well, that's normal to get a text from him, but a phone call? Or rather, eleven phone calls? Shit, he hasn't called me eleven times since I got him his first cell phone five years ago. Something was clearly going on, but since he hadn't left me a voice mail, the text message would be my only clue. When I opened it, it simply read, "I need you to come get me."

Now I know he's an otherwise bright kid, but even folks of average intelligence, if they needed someone to pick them up, would include some basic information in their text like where the hell they were. Not my son, though. That would've made things too easy for me. So I called him. And after having called me eleven times, you know how he reacted when I finally called him back? He didn't answer. No, really...he didn't answer.

I was frustrated but clearly scared, concerned that my child was hurt, badly injured, perhaps lying in a ditch somewhere where no one would find him until the buzzards started circling, and as I had just started to pace around the house, not knowing what to do next, he called.

I answered the phone asking where he was, and he said, "You know where the cemetery is?"

THE cemetery? THE? Like there's only one? And a cemetery? Really? That's not a good omen for your child to call you eleven...scratch that...twelve times from A CEMETERY, asking for a ride home.

I didn't think he'd ride the bike, MY bike, down Skyland towards that cemetery, though, because that road is too busy, so I asked him if he'd gone toward Brookwood from Five Points. There's a cemetery down that way too, I thought to myself, and it seemed relatively close. My son seemed impatient with this question but yes, he agreed, THAT cemetery was the one.

I got in my car and drove there and, well, I couldn't find him. I pulled over and stopped the car, then called him back to ask him exactly where he was and...well...he didn't answer.

Oh. My. God. I was about to SCREAM. He clearly needed help, but really? He can't answer the phone?

I started driving again, and then my phone rang. When I answered he said, "I can see you. Keep coming."

And that's when I saw him....on the side of the road...just past *the* cemetery. When I got closer, I could see that he was holding his hand in a weird position, like he was protecting a baby bird in his palm, and then I saw my bike. Both pieces of it. I had to decide then if I was going to be more upset about my son being injured or my bike...I mean MY bike...being...wrecked. I went back and forth for a few moments, weighing my options, then I decided to concern myself with my son and his injuries. Initially, I mean. After all, I knew I'd come around to pay attention to my bike at some point, but my bleeding child, well, it seemed like the right thing to do to check on him first.

He had cuts on his hand, then he moved his shirt around and I could see he'd skinned his shoulder...and then he lifted his pants and I could see his shin was scratched and bleeding. Nothing serious, but I knew he'd be sore and bruised by the end of the day.

He got in the car as I loaded the front tire of my bike into the trunk and the rest of my bike into the back seat...and then I drove home, suggesting he soak in my tub for a while when we got home. Which he did...while I unloaded my bike and assessed that I'll probably have to get a whole new front tire.

He's fine now, but my bike isn't. I suppose the good news is that Dylan won't be asking to take it back to Florence with him.