When I was in high school, I used to ride my bike up to the hills with my friends. We would sometimes push our bikes up the ranger roads in order to turn around and go flying down them again. Injuries sometimes occurred. We would catch snakes and other creatures too. The first rattlesnake we ever caught was sheltering under a smashed beer can on the dam at Steven's Creek Reservoir. Over the years, we caught a few more.
One day, at the bottom of the steep driveway leading into Steven's Creek County Park, my bike slid on gravel, which led to my knees sliding on gravel when I suddenly found myself underneath my bike. Using what we had on hand, I bound my injury with one of my socks (which slipped off unnoticed later in the day) and we continued our adventure. We caught a rattlesnake that day, and brought it home in a bag of some kind.
My parents took one look at my knee and told me that I needed stitches. I disagreed, not that it did me any good. I ended up getting 13 or 14 stitches.
The rattlesnake ended up living under a couple of tires in the backyard, with a board thrown on top so it couldn't get out. I only kept it for a week before giving it to a guy I'd met at BAARS (that's Bay Area Amphibian & Reptile Society). I didn't want to chance it getting loose in the backyard. I could just see my parents' faces when I told them there was a dangerous reptile loose on the property. I ended up telling my mom about it something like a decade after the fact, and even then she wasn't pleased.
Shortly thereafter, I ripped out all of my stitches while attempting to kick over an empty garbage can while riding my bike. I'd obviously forgotten which day the garbage truck came.
The can wasn't empty.
It was like kicking a bag of cement, and I spun to the ground to the tune of my stitches popping out. Instant karma.
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