“That’s just so adorable,” I heard one of the mothers say as the fire truck led us down Horseshoe Trail Road toward Forge Mountain Drive. Kids rang their bike bells, and I held on to the back of Peter’s seat as we headed down the hill, to keep him from hurtling forward. At the corner of Forge Mountain Drive another group was waiting, more bikes and streamers and two toddlers in strollers being pushed by their dads, who carried giant milk bottles and a big sign with the American flag. Kids cycled into the growing parade as we passed their houses. There was a procession of cars behind us, beeping, and the fire engine blared. Marie would say this was her idea of hell on earth, but large groups of people coming together always got me, and I felt emotional. At Paul Lemen we met our first real competitor. He had a bike designed as a fighter jet, and the sign read We Salute Our Brave Military. His dad was probably an engineer or something, it was so well done. Peter was pedaling furiously, adrenaline-pumped from all the noise and excitement and older kids on their Flyers. We went past our street, and when we came up to Hamilton another boy joined us on a Big Wheel, dressed in red, white, and blue. Like Peter, he had white face paint, except his face was painted to look sad. Big black teardrops fell from his child eyes. Behind him he hauled a six-foot papier-mâché flag and a sign that read Please Don’t Burn My Flag.

“Do you think the flag one will win?” Ellen asked, pushing her bike beside me.

“Probably. But they should disqualify parents who do everything. It’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like we let Peter do very much either.”

Back at the Sun Bowl, the kids circled the basketball court in front of the judges for a few laps. Ellen and I sat on the swings with Bruce while Mrs. Boucher did the three-legged race with Peter. I hadn’t been able to look at her all day. I didn’t know whether I hated her or myself more. Someone announced with a megaphone that they were now going to have the prize-giving, could all the kids bring their bikes; the winners would be asked to do a circuit of the court. Ellen and I stood near the seesaws, watching as they started calling out the prizes. There was Best Effort and Most Original and Most Patriotic, and Craziest—the two dads with the giant bottles won that. They jogged around the court like they had just run a marathon, beers in one hand, the giant bottles in the other, and we all clapped.