I must've been nine or ten. It was a perfect summer day, with perfect weather, in perfect Palo Alto, California, in my grandparents' perfect neighborhood. I was riding my beyond amazing green banana seat bike with tall handlebars. Proudly printed on the frame were the words "Dill Pickle," and the playing card I had clipped near my spokes was making the most satisfying purr. My brother was seated behind me. No helmets. No worries. Wind in our hair. Bliss!
And then a police officer pulled up beside us and demanded that we stop immediately. Which we most certainly did.
Police Officer: "Only one passenger per seat."
I looked at my banana seat that clearly provided ample room for my bottom, my brother's bottom, and at least one more friend's bottom, and looked back at the cop.
I think it was at that moment that I realized that not all laws made make sense...or at least the bad ones shouldn't apply to me.
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