Caution: Dad on a mission

First, I'd like to apologize to the Chinese. Sort of.

In the midst of feverishly scrambling to assemble a small, pink princess bicycle in the parking lot of my daughter's pre-school recently, I might have said a few things about the Chinese that weren't exactly complimentary.

It didn't help that the tool kit I bought with the bike didn't include clamps, which would have come in handy considering the (bleeping) Chinese just had to use bolts that weren't made with any human measurement scale.

Once I figured out that the Chinese (bleepers) who assembled this pink piece of (bleep) designed the pedal bolts to tighten opposite of the "righty tighty" method, everything was fine.

That's when I realized that I may have slightly over-reacted, despite losing skin off my fingers hopelessly attempting to tighten those (bleeping) bolts with my bare freaking hands.

Thanks a lot, China!

Maybe next time I should just scrape off a few lead-based paint chips and eat them until the lead drives me stone cold crazy!

But I digress. Also, I should probably explain how I got to the point where I was frantically monkeying with a child's bike in a parking lot.

You see, Friday was "Trike-A-Thon" day at Liz's pre-school. She had been looking forward to it all week. The premise was to teach the kids about bike safety while also raising money for St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital.

Liz was supposed to get people to pledge a certain amount of money per lap that she completed on her tri-cycle at the school's playground course. Fair enough. Her pledge-givers (we, her family) decided to pledge a set amount, and all was good until we got to school.

Liz and I walked in together. She carried the shiny, new "Dora The Explorer" helmet and knee pads that she and my wife, Lisa, had picked up the night before. Liz was so proud. One of her classmates even commented about how "cool" her new helmet was.

And then, after my pre-requisite hug goodbye, it was off to place her tri-cycle out where her class' bikes were to be stored until 11 a.m. – the time when her class, the "Koalas," hit the open road for the exciting, thrilling "Trike-A-Thon."

It was approximately 9:45 when I got to the "Koalas" trikes, which turned out to be actual bikes, complete with training wheels and horns and pom-pon stuff sticking out of the handles.

Liz's "bike" was an actual trike, like the kind two and three-year olds use.

It was approximately 9:46 when my heart broke.

At that point, Liz had the only tri-cycle in her class. She has a form of dwarfism, and her tiny legs could barely reach the pedals of her tri-cycle until last summer, when she turned 4. She stands about 35 inches tall, which pales in comparison to her friends.

We'd never thought of getting her an actual bike, even a really small one that she might be able to handle with training wheels. So, we let her use that trike and never thought twice.

Not until Friday, that is. The thought of Liz getting out there with the other kids, and noticing that she had the only "little kid's" bike just about ripped me apart. I called Lisa. We cried.

I said, "There is a practical way to handle this and an impractical way to handle this."

The practical solution was to hope for the best and see about getting her a bike later. The impractical way was for me to rush over to Meijer's and get her a bike, then assemble it – all before that 11 a.m. deadline.

Well, if you've read this far, you know which one I picked. Soon I was on my way to the store, tailgating an old lady who I swear hit her brakes about 315 times in one three-block stretch of downtown Crown Point.

Immediately I thought about the recent U.S. News & World Report study showing where the nation's worst drivers are. They ranked Indiana in the 20s among states, but they missed this lady – who easily could have ranked 10^th all by herself.

It was almost 10 a.m. when I got to the store and started looking at bikes. All of the pre-assembled jobs were too huge for Liz, even the smallest ones. Dejected, I started to leave before noticing even smaller bikes in boxes.

On the boxes were notices stating three words that have made many dads cry and pee their pants upon reading them: "Some assembly required."

Those dads weren't the son of Lee Hedger, though, who was widely known around our part of Brighton, Mich., as the real life "Mr. Goodwrench."

In a flash, I did the math in my head. It was at least 15 minutes back to the pre-school parking lot, which would give me roughly 25 minutes to assemble that (bleeper) and roll it out to Lizzy and the Koalas (which Dave Barry would think is an excellent name for a rock band).

"If I'm going to do this, I need tools!" I thought, rushing off to the tool aisle.

There, I grabbed a gray box that touted its 144 piece tool set. Would you believe that none of those pieces included pliers?

Also, they must have been Norwegian tools, because not one of those 144 pieces ended up fitting correctly on any of the (bleeping) Chinese hardware that came with the bike. Of course, I didn't find that out until I'd thrown the focker into the trunk of my car and sped off toward the school.

Wouldn't you know it? More fogies puttering along at 20 mph or less! Damn! It was pushing 80 degrees outside. Inside my air-conditioned Sebring, I started to sweat.

"You people are going to break my little girl's heart," I muttered. "Oh, but at least you know where the brake pedal is. This has to be what it's like to live in Florida."

Somehow, I pulled into the lot around 10:25 (I really shaved some time off after tailgating an elderly couple so bad they pulled over to let me pass. Sorry, little girls take precedence people).

Before you could say "communism" I had that pink metallic Chinese handiwork out of the box and nearly slapped together. Front tire? On. Seat? On and secured. Handle bars? On, tightened and straight. Pom-pon thingys? Jammed into the handles.

All was ready to go except for that blasted left pedal, which I was fighting with when my wife pulled up shortly before 11.

"If I had a (bleeping) hammer, I'd just hammer this (bleeper) in there and be done with it," I snorted. "(Bleeping) Chinese. Everything's made in China … and it's made like crap!"

"Do you want me to go see if they have a hammer or something?" Lisa said.

"Yes. Yes. That would be good. A hammer," I gasped. "See if they have a hammer. I'll pound on it until it fits! Oh, and see about some pliers!"

She and our unborn son, Chance, headed off on their mission and returned with the hammer -- which I then began to use frantically, as if our very lives depended on me getting that pedal in there. It didn't work.

"Son of a (bleep)!" I snapped. "It's not working! Piece of (bleep)! This is all the Chinese's fault, you know. This is their way of sticking it to us … by making (bleepy) pieces of (bleep) like this pink (bleeper) right here. (Bleep) you, China."

In my head, I thought about last summer's Olympics in Beijing, China. I thought about all the high-tech laser wizardy, graceful movements and other glam from the opening and closing ceremonies.

"They can do all of that crap," I thought, "but they can't make a bolt fit into a hole for (bleep)!"

I squeezed my fat little fingers around the bolt and turned -- to no avail.

"If only this stupid tool set had come with pliers," I muttered.

"Oh, do you want me to go ask them if they have some pliers?" Lisa said.

"Didn't I say to ask them for some pliers before?" I snapped, clearly on the verge of defeat by the Chinese. "Yes, go see if they have some pliers or something for this (bleeping) Chinese (bleeper)."

And then, something magical happened. Just as Lisa returned with the pliers, I turned the bolt the opposite way. It went into place with ease. I could sense those Chinese bike makers shaking their heads and laughing at me, somewhat vindicated.

I didn't care.

The pedal crisis solved, I wheeled the bike over to the race course proudly. Liz was happily pedaling her trike around the track with a huge smile on her face, looking about as cute as anything I've ever seen – a little blur of helmet and knee pads. As it turned out, other Koalas kids had trikes, too.

I didn't care. I was a man who had conquered an impossible mission, and backward Chinese engineering, to save the day. I wanted badly to stick out my chest, grunt and scratch myself -- but refrained.

Liz pedaled closer to where I'd parked her new bike, and I told her it was hers.

"That's MY bike, Dad?" she said. "Really, Dad? It's all mine?"

"Yeah, baby … it's all yours."

Thanks, China.