When I was 4 or 5 years old, I had a little red tricycle, just like every other kid in America. It had a red frame, white wheels and white handlebars with red grips on them.
One day, I jumped on the seat and grabbed the grips, ready to take off on some adventure, or another. Suddenly, I had a searing pain in the palm of my hand. A red wasp had landed on the red grip, and I put my hand right right on top of him. That did not make the wasp happy, and he had let me know that, in his own way.
It was quite a while before I wanted to get back on the trike, and even longer before I stopped checking the grips for wasps.
Sometimes, even today, I find myself nervous about grabbing the grips, first thing in the morning.