Summertime burns

I'm surprised there isn't a scar on my inner ankle.

Summertime reminds me of better days spent broiling in the south's heat and humidity, riding bitch on a Honda Big Red that belonged to my best friend. Before his mom remarried, he'd ride back roads from his house to mine, tearing ass down sandy washboard. We'd tussle in my backyard above-ground pool, playing some bastardized version of basketball using an innertube and soccer ball. I've no idea where I got a soccer ball, but at least it was put to good use. The water temperatures were roughly the same as bathwater, but it provided a welcome change of pace to video games or rented VHS movies.

He'd often stay the night, not wanting to ride at night because of deer.

When he was 14 or so, his mom started letting him drive an old brown Toyota station wagon. Sometimes, my mother would let me ride back with him to his house.

I didn't spend the night over at his place much. I can't really say why, other than I had better stuff.

But he did have a sister, and later, I learned how much better her stuff was than mine.

That came long after he moved to town and we moved apart.

He's now a doctor, and his sister isn't the only one with better stuff than me.

That three wheeler, the Honda Big Red? Turns out, if you sit just so and your legs position the wrong way, the engine would burn the fuck out of your ankles.

I'm surprised there isn't a scar, beyond the one left when absent friends leave wounds that sometimes don't heal.