CURRENT DAY POST.
I think my bicycle is trying to kill me.
It started out as a simple wipe-out – the amount of time I
spend on my bike the law of averages really demanded that eventually I’d have a
collision of gravity, inertia, idiots and pain.
In this actual instance I came around a corner after a super-steep hill
going about mach 4 to find a pack of wild morons had taken refuge in the mouth
of the tunnel into which I was barreling because of 3 minutes of
sprinkles. Not so many sprinkles as to
really require the seeking of refuge, no matter how much beer one has
apparently soaked one’s clothing in, but just enough to make the ground at the
near-end mouth of the tunnel slightly slick.
The kind of slick that, when breaks are applied in a panic, makes your
rear wheel swing around to be parallel with the tunnel and then, since the
wheels are no longer pointed in the direction of movement, start flipping ass
over tea kettle.*
In short, I got surprised, skidded, slid around and then
went flying.
When things stopped going “crash!” and “Oof!” and “Holy…!”
and “screech!!!” the bike lay on the ground and I lay on top of it. On top of the front wheel to be
specific. It was ground, then bike, then
my ass. I took the first few seconds to
do that body parts inventory – you know the one. “Are my body parts all still there?” followed
immediately by “Do they all still move?”
Somewhere in there the silence was broken by a voice from the pack of
morons at the other end of the tunnel.
“You ok?”
When I told the story later I really wanted to be critical
of what seemed like the most stupid of all possible responses, but honestly
what else do you say? You just watched
someone come screaming around the corner and then explode. They’re now just lying there, possibly dead
or dying or hoping for death. You’re
kind of worried that if they DON’T die they’re gonna get up and kill you. It was really the only proper thing to
say.
My response was, at the time and in my judgment, also the
only right one. I said, with growing
volume and intensity, “yes, but it’s YOUR FUCKING FAULT THAT I CRASHED!!!!!”
I was actually really pleased with the echo that followed my response
down the tunnel – I was rocking the evil villain voice right then. It would have been much more impressive if
I’d been able to get up off my totally prone position, but I did what I could
with what I had.
One guy – the big one, and also the stupid one. The big, stupid one, that guy, got defensive
and started in with “oh sure, it’s OUR fault…” and I’m sure he had compelling
evidence to back his theory, but he was cut off by the other guy – the cooler
one who was much cooler than his social group and his “Coors” cologne gave you
reason to expect – who went right into ‘hero’ mode. He was through the tunnel to my end and helping
pick me up off the ground in a flash. He
dusted me off (which was nice but ineffectual) and then gave me a hug (which
was nice and… well, weird. But the nice
overwhelmed the weird in the moment) and I kind of teared up.
Oh, important clarification here: This was about week 2 or 3 after T.E. left
me. I was still sad and emotionally bare
and the dumbest little thing, like accidentally killing a spider in the shower,
could set off the water works. I’d also
had a very sucky day that day and was in the process of trying to bike away
from that day, but it had very clearly dashed ahead on my bike path and
crouched down to leap out and attack me.
So there were tears. I hated them
so much, especially in front of The Big, Stupid guy and the Cooler Than You’d
Expect guy, but I knew there wasn’t anything that was gonna stop them. So.
Tears.
The Cooler Guy checked me over and fixed my bike chain and
gave me another hug, all while The
Big, Stupid one lectured me on why it was actually my fault due to my biking on
the wrong side of the path and this one time somebody gave him a ticket for
walking on the wrong side of the path and it was so wrong but what are you
going to do, right?... I was eager to
get away from the whole beer-stinking group once the bike was working and my
tears were bottled back up and so I hopped on the seat and dashed away.
About 30 seconds in the saddle and I knew my knee was
waiting to have words with me about a paradigm shift that it had experienced
when I smashed it into the ground and slid it along. I explained to the knee that it would have to
hold that thought until we got home. Oh,
and here I should also mention that we were exactly as far away from home as
was possible on this route. So home we
went…
The days and actually weeks after (up to now in fact) had
lots of bruises and one purple, skinless knee approximately 60% larger than
it’s neighbor and general pain. But
again, this was a rare event, one that I literally walked away from and I was
basically due, so…
Today I was barreling down the path at my normal 15
mph. The weather was beautiful with sun
AND blue skies (a great combination – I highly recommend) and I was almost 2/3
of the way done with the run, so… you know, it was good. I went to pass this pair also on their bikes and
giving definition to the concept of “strolling by bike” especially compared to my speed. Then they decided that, given the person
coming at them from the front (and yeah, I saw her coming, but I had the window
to pass) and the voice they’d just heard from behind them calling out “passing
on your left!” (that was me), the appropriate course of action was to turn
suddenly left, closing up my passing hole.
I jumped all over the breaks and some stuff happened. These things are extremely mysterious. I know that the top of the toes on my right
foot scraped the ground in some fashion; that the breaks were so effective that
all wheels stopped rolling but did not stop moving;
that I did go over the handlebars, but not because I was vaulted into the air
but instead because the bike disappeared under me somehow. Once I was no longer riding the bike I
managed to stay on my feet and ended the performance running down the bike path
away from my bike who was now dead and lying on the ground behind me.
You heard me: I
wrecked but somehow ended up on my feet and running down the path. I went from biking to running in
mid-work-out. I. Am.
Awesome.
The damage this time, as you could imagine, was far less
severe. Basically the left peddle went
all gangsta on my left foot/ankle/shin/calf/make it stop… But I had the time during the rest of the
ride to consider how it was that I’ve had two wreck-like-instances in a month
and in the end the answer seemed clear:
my bike, tired of all the work I just keep putting it through and
resentful of the shameful lack of washing that it’s had, is finally rising up
and seeking appropriate and reasonable revenge.
What to do about it.
Stop biking? Oh please. Wash the bike? Sure, but I’m tired and that’s hard. Open up a dialogue with the bike to work out
the issues and find a compromise?
Clearly you, my friend, are a communist.
No, I’m going with the only reasonable course of action: keep doing what I’ve been doing but be
generally suspicious of my once-trusty-steed.
I’ve got my eye on you, Blue Thunder.
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