On a bike...with milk

No, not "On a Boat". (NSFW).
Out with friends today and I related a story. Perhaps, as I approach my own personal moon launch anniversary, I'm feeling a bit nostalgic. This isn't anywhere near pasteurized, nor approaching a proper memoir, but needed to be captured while still fresh.

Set-up: Summer 1979. On the way home from the store, a quart of milk in one hand, the other on the handlebars of my new 10-speed.
Story: I was a block away from our house, across from the park where my brother and I used to play baseball and brawl with each other, often in parallel. A white van is creeping up on me in the Playground Zone. We're all going slow, as dictated by the laws of pedaling and civil obedience. I decide it's safest to go up on the sidewalk. I managed to negotiate the suburb curb without a hitch...

And, then a glitch. "Crap" or "Poop", I must have said in my 10 year-old head. Little did I know that there was a lawn equipment barricade strewn all over said sidewalk.
A reactionary veer to the left, left me smashed into the side of said van.
Dazed, scraped - I spun to find nuns fluttering over me...yes nuns.
They weren't in full garb, but you could still tell their habits.(Apologies for the rhymes and puns). After a careful inspection of me, my bike, and the still-intact milk (and a few Hail Mary's), I was permitted to go home.
But, they followed me.
Embarrassed, I scurried my bike around the corner and down the driveway to the back of the house and uttered, likely implored: "Mom! Don't answer the door! Don't answer the door!"
++++++
I didn't hear the conversation that they had. I was sitting in the kitchen having a glass of milk.