Had I known I had an audience, I would have done something much more memorable.

Ben and I leave the house Tuesday night for an evening bike ride. It’s becoming our habit as the daytime highs are hitting “only” 92 and the breeze provides a break from the humectant air.

Ben hasn’t learned to use the brake yet, because he hasn’t really needed it. He sees something interesting, stops pedaling, and his bike quickly slows against the training wheels’ drag. I squeeze my brake levers with both hands, the front brakes squeal in protest, and I steer to a stop beside Ben.

“What was that noise, Daddy?”

“Just my brakes, son.”

Repeat this about 10 times in the next 20 minutes and you have a fairly clear picture of most of our rides. But this one had something special in store (and of course I have a sound clip).

He pedals non-stop for a good five- or six-house stretch. He stops to assess a white Ford F150 blocking most of the sidewalk. I stop and set one foot down to keep from falling over, bouncing my left testicle against my bike frame just hard enough to remind me I’m wearing gym shorts, not jeans. We ably navigate around the truck and make it to the end of our street.

We head north a block or two, where the road makes a 90-degree turn and the sidewalk meanders through the two driveways on the corner lot. A barely detectable uphill stretch awaits us.

“Look at me daddy, I can keep going because I have mo, momentum. See-Threepio. Daddy, I can say, ‘See-threepio.’”

I am at once perplexed and proud. He obviously is on his way to mastering Newton’s Laws of Motion, and tends to throw random Star Wars references into conversation. I chuckle and manage a feeble, “That’s good, Ben.” I think he was saying one difficult word after another to show himself (and me) that he could do it.

A few houses beyond Ben’s watershed pronunciation of the fictional protocol droid’s name, he says, “My tummy says, ‘I’m hungry,’” in his best impression of a stomach. To call Shannon and let her know, I confidently take one hand off the grips and pull out my mobile phone. Holding it in front of my face to keep one eye on Ben, I dial with one hand and steer with the other. I punch “Send.”

The answering machine picks up. Where’s Shannon? I wonder. My wife’s voice goes through its spiel. “Hey, it’s me, whatchoo up to girl?” I say, all cool and casual.

Ben stops.

I pull on the left brake lever and veer right to avoid him. Apparently this is a poor combination of movements. My wheel turns too sharply and I go airborne, holding my mobile phone aloft the way a redneck avoids a beer foul. I land hard on my right side, in the grass between the sidewalk and the street. After my first bounce my back hits a bricked-in mailbox.

“Ow!” Pause to make sure I’m alive. “Oh,” I moan. “I’ll call you back.” I flip my phone shut, like Kirk would his communicator after getting a final message to Scotty before succumbing to an ear-splitting sonic pulse.

Push play to hear my call as recorded by our answering machine.

Remembering we’re in public in broad daylight, I choose getting up over writhing in agony. Plus, I don’t want to scare Ben. I look across the street to a neighboring front porch. A young woman with dark hair flashes white teeth in a smile that somehow says, “Gee, that was funny, but I see that you’re okay. Still, that had to be embarrassing.” It’s amazing what we humans can detect (or imagine) from one look.

“What happened, Daddy?”

“Daddy crashed. Let’s get going.” I holster my phone.

“You crashed?”

“Yes, son, let’s go. You said you’re hungry.”

Ben gets a headstart as I call Shannon and leave a message announcing that I’m fine. We head back without incident. My phone rings as we pull into our driveway.

“Are you OK?” Shannon asks.

“Yes. I just had a little wreck on my bike.”

Sitting here typing this, I reach up to touch the middle of my back. It smarts, and probably will start turning colors soon.

Those brick mailboxes don’t care about your momentum.