Bike wreck

For quite some time, I was an avid bike rider.  I have both a mountain bike and a road bike and I’ve done some serious miles.  I’ve ridden to Rockvale, Pueblo, Cripple Creek, Florence, and Penrose many, many times.  Once, I even rode to Alamosa.  About ten years ago, I was in a pretty serious accident.  I was riding down Main Street and I jumped up on the sidewalk to avoid some construction, and my bike tire got caught between the grass and the sidewalk.  I flipped over and hit the low stone wall surrounding the canine unit on Second and Main.  The wall went through my chin and fractured my cheekbone and I damaged my kneecap, plus a million other scrapes and bruises.  I was riding before my stitches were out, but maybe not with the same fervor.  A year or so after that, I was attacked on the riverwalk while riding.  A man jumped in front of me and grabbed my handlebars.  He didn’t physically touch me, but he spit in my face.  I screamed and people on the riverwalk came running into view to help me and the creepy man ran into the woods.  Even though I was safe, riding my bike was never really quite the same for me.  I became a little skittish about riding alone.  Then the afternoon of my parents’ car accident, I didn’t answer the first phone call, because I wanted to go for a bike ride.  A million times I’ve thought–“What if I answered that call.  Maybe my dad would still be alive.  At least I might have been able to say good-bye.”  Every time I looked at my bike, I thought of my phone ringing, and I just quit putting on the miles.   One of the promises I made to myself after recovering from cancer was to take up bike riding again.

Here’s the thing, recovering my stamina hasn’t been as easy I thought it would be.  I still get fatigued pretty easily.  And if I get overtired, I almost feel sick.  So I have been riding, but I’m definitely not as fast or strong as once was.  Yesterday, I was so hot when I came home from work, that I thought a nice ride with the breeze blowing against my skin would be just the ticket.  However, I always feel like I should spend some time with my son when I get home and then my daughter came home from school in tears because she hates school so much.  So I got kind of a late start when I started out on my evening ride.  In hindsight, I should have settled for a quick ride around the neighborhood, but instead set off on a twenty-five mile journey that was one of my old routes when I was riding consistently.  Part of the journey involves the riverwalk from Centennial Park to Mackenzie Blvd.  I realized the sun was setting when I was at the highest point of the trail, and I might have turned around, but I ran into a friend that I hadn’t seen in awhile. So I stopped to catch up because that is what you do in a small town.  And I was rested enough after our ten or fifteen minute chat, that I felt like I could handle the rest of the route, so I kept on going.

I didn’t really notice the darkness until I reached the outskirts of town where Mackenzie meets the highway.  I paused for a moment and took a drink and unzipped my bike bag to get my cell phone and let the kids know I was okay.  That’s when I realized that I didn’t have my phone.  I knew they would be worried because I had been gone quite awhile.  So I tried to increase my speed and I decided to cut out part of journey to make the trip a little shorter, but I still had about five miles to go.  Maybe everything would have been fine, but a bug flew into my eye.  I tried to get it out with my hand, and I didn’t notice that I had steered into the soft dirt on the side of the road until my wheel skidded and I overcorrected with one hand and fell off, hitting my elbow on the asphalt of the road, hard.  My pedal knocked into my leg.  I lay for a minute on the side of the road, in the dark, with my bike on top of me.  I kind of either wanted to die or be transported into a nice bubble bath.  If I’d had my phone, I probably would have surrendered and had one of the kids come and get me.  I thought for a minute about who lived nearby and wondered if I should probably get some help, but instead I got up and took stock.  I had a tiny scrape on my elbow and my leg felt bruised, but basically I was fine, so I got back on my bike and did the long, painful last five or so miles, uphill in the dark.

When I finally got home, the porch light was one.  Darian greeted me first with, “DUDE, where have you been?  Are you okay?  Shayne is freaking out.”  Shayne came rushing in to the living room.  His eyes were big and bright.  I was scared for a minute that psychosis had taken over again, but he was coherent when he said, “You were gone for so long.  I tried to call you, but you left your phone here.  Are you okay?”  I reassured them both that I was fine.  Shayne went outside to put my bike away and Darian continued scolding me.  “You can’t do that.  He can’t handle it.  He was so freaked out and worried.  Remember he’s fragile, like a puppy.  And I thought you were dead.  I was making plans.  James would have to do the funeral, because I couldn’t handle that.  And I’d have to go to Chicago and enroll in school. I would do that over the Labor Day Weekend. And…”

I stopped her by saying, “Darian.  I’m not dead.”  Shayne came into the house then, walked over, and hugged me, then went to bed.  Darian waited till she heard his door shut and said, “Don’t forget–like a puppy.”

Well, that made a lot of sense, Darian would be tough and pull out her survival skills in a crises and Shayne would break down and fall into his voices.  I woke up with a bruised elbow and leg, but surprisingly little road rash.  I felt stronger, like I had broken through some kind of barrier.  Next spring, I turn fifty and I’ve always wanted to ride somewhere epic to celebrate–like to the Oregon coast, or along the Appalachian trail.   So I’m going to keep riding and building my strength.   I’ll just remember to bring my cell phone next time.  Maybe Shayne will ride with me.  We can take care of each other, so Darian won’t have to pick up the pieces.