Contributing Writer

Tour de Georgia came rolling through the streets of our fair county last month.�Lance Armstrong and company put on quite a show for the approximately 10,000 spectators who anxiously waited for hours just catch a fleeting glimpse of the pedal master.�Finally, under the shadow of the old courthouse clock tower, the gun sounded and the race started.�The spectators strained against makeshift guard rails as the yellow jersey whizzed by in a silent, blinding blur.

But while everyone else in the crowd watched Lance Armstrong and the other racers of the pedalthon, I kept a leery eye on a far greater adversary than even Lance himself. The clowns. Ever since the third grade I've been afraid of clowns. There, I've said it. Big strong Fireman Rick is afraid of clowns. I'm not proud of it, just like I wasn't proud when Goofy Steve told a really funny joke during lunch and I shot Co-Cola out of my nose all over Coach Reaves. Ran laps for an entire week after that little incident.

When the Tour de Georgia started, some 100 high-tech bikes pedaled out of the square - aboard were the sport's most highly trained athletes.�They pedaled down Glynn Street without as much as a sound. Kinda like the clown that crept up on me from behind. Seems some of my co-workers at the fire department knew of my clown phobia and decided it was best that I confront it head on.

I was confronted by it all right.�After being tapped on the shoulder I turned around and was face to face with a huge red wig, bright yellow hat, a big red nose and a pair of size nineteen shoes - I was paralyzed with fear.�The happy, fun loving clown just smiled and hugged me!

My buddies...I can always count on them having fun - just like I could count on my friends from Flamingo Street always having fun. And some of the best fun we had was during the summer riding our bikes - especially me. Flamingo Street was a no-clown zone.

Each of us had a name for our bikes. Mine was called Red Rocket; Neighbor Thomas's was Sling Shot; Bubba Hank had a huge green bike he called The Hulk; and Goofy Steve's was the Squirrel. We all thought Squirrel was a goofy name for a bike, but then again so was Goof.

One summer Goofy Steve came riding up on his sister's bike! It had tassels on the handle bars and a white and blue basket on the front.�He said that the Squirrel was still broken after the ill-fated jump over Neighbor Thomas's mailbox the week before.�But as different as our bikes were, they all had one thing in common. We all had playing cards attached to our frames by clothespins. When the wheels turned, the spokes would strike the playing cards and we'd sound like a swarm of bees riding through the neighborhood.�Everyone got out of our way - well, everyone except Down the Street Bully Brad.

Bully Brad cut up one of his dad's beer cans and wired it to the spokes. It sounded like machine gun fire when he rode his bike.�We could hear him coming down the street long before we could ever see him, and it was a good thing, too; most of the time he was looking to beat me up.�The machine gun sound of his bike gave me fair warning to get out of the way.

All summers on Flamingo Street were filled with cutting through yards, riding the dirt trails behind Mt. Olive Elementary school, trying to jump over Cripple Creek, seeing who could lay down the longest skid mark down to the cul-de-sac to Old Ms Crabtree's house, and - of course - playing chicken.�It was truly a magical time.�And we did it all without wearing a helmet. It's a wonder we survived without serious brain injury - although some of my co-workers would debate that last statement.

Unlike the kids from Flamingo Street, the participants in the pedalthon last month didn't make a sound as they whizzed through the winding streets of our county on their way to their final destination of the day - Rome. To go along with their really cool bike helmets, I think Lance and friends should've had some playing cards stuck in their spokes. They would've sounded like a swarm of angry killer bees as they pedaled through our county. Or at least the clowns should've had some tied to their shoes so that unsuspecting spectators like yours truly could hear them as they snuck around giving out clown hugs.�Yuck!

As the racers approached my position, an irresistible urge washed over me: the urge to toss the stick I was holding in front of the first cyclists. One well placed stick could've wiped them all out. But I decided not to.�Me being with the fire department and all, it would've looked kinda bad.�Besides, I was saving the stick to beat off the clown with the big red nose if it wandered back over to give me another hug.

So, simply put, clowns scare me. And so do kids riding bikes, scooters, skateboards or in-line skates without wearing the proper equipment like elbow and knee pads, wrist guards, and of course a proper fitting helmet. On the average, each year 200 children die in bicycle related crashes, 140,000 are treated for head injuries sustained while riding their bikes, and seven out of eight bicycle related fatalities could have been prevented if the child had simply done one thing - worn a helmet.�No data was found on how many each year had been kissed by a rough clown.

A child wearing a helmet could save a lifetime of grief for parents.�If parents can afford to buy you a $300 bike, then they can afford a $40 helmet.

Not only will a good fitting helmet protect a child's head, it can also be used to fend off any stray clowns from last month's bike race.�Let's face it, there's just something wrong with anyone who's in a constant state of happiness and wears all that makeup in public.�Just unnatural, I tell ya, 'bout as unnatural as kid riding a bike without wearing a bike helmet.