give me a 4.5 for style, please

     I was about 17.  I had just gotten a new three speed thin tired racing bike.  Well, it was actually a used bike, but it was new to me.
     All bad stories start with the phrase, "I was trying to impress this girl."
      That's because guys do stupid things when trying to impress a girl.  It doesn't matter if they are 17 or 71, guys don't always think it through.
     So there I was, minding my own business, riding my bike along the lakefront in Chicago.
     I was near Montrose harbor, not real far from my house.  I rode there a lot because it was good exercise and it was a beautiful setting.
     I was crossing the parking lot when I saw The Girl I Was Trying To Impress.  She was in a car, taking driving lessons from a friend of mine, who also liked her.
     I debated about what to do.
     Ride up to them and talk about the weather?  Compliment her on her driving ability?  Thank him for teaching her to drive?  Pretend I did not see them and continue riding?
     Unfortunately, I chose none of the above.
     The lot had those concrete blocks that separated parking spaces....the ones about 6 inches high and four inches wide.
     I decided I would jump one on my bike.
     I watched where they were practicing, saw a concrete block and started pedaling.
     I was pedalling, furiously.  My legs were churning, pumping, the bike was gaining speed.
     Sure I had jumped with my old bike, I would yank hard on the handlebars and the bike would fly over with ease, if I had enough speed.
     I know they were watching as I zoomed past them.  When I approached the curb I pulled up on the handle bars with all my strength.
     This was the first bike I had with hand brakes.
     As I yanked up, I pushed down hard on the brakes and the bike skidded to a stop.  Almost.
      I hit the concrete block straight on and was propelled over the handle bars, because I was standing up for the jump.  Let me correct that:  partially over the handle bars.
      As I lay on the ground they rushed up to me and asked if I was alright.   I could not tell them exactly where I hurt, and I sure as hell could not rub it in public.
      I got up, dusted myself off and walked my bike slowly away.  I hurt for a few days, but eventually I could pee straight again.
      So, something you may not know about me:

I would be a lousy motocross bike racer