Don’t Try This at Home (Unless “Home” is a 50 MPH Highway)

You know the title, so let’s just get this out of the way: Do not ride your bike on 50 MPH roads. Seriously. My dad and I just did, and while it was eventually hilarious, it started with a lot of questionable decision-making.

The Calm Before the Storm (of Semi-Trucks)

It was June 17, 2025. A lovely morning, really. Puddles from yesterday’s rain shimmered, squirrels did their squirrelly thing, and the faint sound of wind rustling leaves was utterly idyllic. My dad and I set off on our morning bike ride, oblivious to the impending chaos. I was in charge of the route, which, in hindsight, was my first mistake.

As we pedaled along, I noticed a distinct lack of squirrels. This should have been my first clue that we were heading somewhere less… critter-friendly. The traffic started to get heavier, and then Dad hit the brakes at a traffic light. That’s when he dropped the bombshell: “Any direction forward is a 50 MPH zone.”

His suggestion? Turn around. My response? “Nah, my legs are tired, and going left is a more direct way home.” Yes, folks, my desire for a slightly shorter route trumped common sense and basic self-preservation. Dad, bless his trusting heart, agreed, promising to “watch my back.” Little did he know, he’d be watching a lot more than just my back.

The Need for Speed (and a Very Wide Shoulder)

Dad, ever the strategist, told me to get into the left turning lane like we were, you know, an actual car. It felt bizarre, and frankly, a little terrifying. He was stressing me out, chanting about going as soon as the light turned green. My already tired legs were now fueled by pure adrenaline and mild panic.

The light changed, we made our left turn without incident, and thankfully, the bike shoulder was wide. Plenty of space! Or so I thought. Then, out of nowhere, a semi-truck roared past, sounding less like a vehicle and more like a jet engine trying to swallow my soul. I swear it sounded like an airhorn had taken up residence in my ear canal. I found myself riding in the gravel, trying to meld with the earth to escape the sheer loudness. My whole world was shaking!

And then, because the universe has a wicked sense of humor, a pickup truck with a trailer came barreling by, making the semi sound like a gentle lullaby. My mind was officially blown. Who knew a pickup could pack more decibel punch than an 18-wheeler?

Puddle Paradise and Paternal Drenching

Just when I thought my eardrums might explode, Dad pulled a fast one. He knew a shortcut! We veered into a bank parking lot, then through an elementary school that was thankfully closed for summer.

The school’s bus corral had a gravel drive, deeply rutted from a year’s worth of tiny humans and massive yellow vehicles. But then I saw it. The Mona Lisa of puddles. The Mount Everest of muddy water. It was enormous, dark, and promised pure, unadulterated slime. Who could deny such a magnificent aquatic adventure? Not me!

I flew through it, water spraying in a glorious, uninhibited arc. My big mountain bike tires churned through the muck like it was a freshly paved road. It was awesome.

Then I looked over at Dad. He was frowning. More than frowning, actually. He was completely, utterly, and magnificently drenched in foul, sickening, disgusting, swamp water that I had enthusiastically sprayed at least 20 feet in every direction.

What a good ride we had today. I mean, he’ll dry eventually, right?

Have you ever had a bike ride go hilariously wrong (or right, depending on your perspective)? Share your stories in the comments!