Well, Somehow Cal.E. was able to procure the use of a phone for three days in a row. She called me this morning. Here is how that conversation went.
C.: Stripes and Plaid, Stripes and Plaid, that was BAD!
D.: Are you talking about the Astros losing the World Series, or maybe the Rockets’ game? The Texans are NOT playing well either. Is that what you are referring to, Cal.E.?
C.: No, none of the above, d.c. I am talking about the food here. It is lunch time, but I am NOT going to eat the bad food they serve here. PTUI!
D.: What are they serving you that is so bad, Cal.E.?
C.: Well, yesterday they served us Sturgeon eggs. Today, it is something called Porterhouse steak. Dead cow? Yuck!
D.: You mean you are a cat and you do not like caviar or steak?
C.: No, d.c. I do not. Give me a dead rat, or a bird to chase down. Even aged garbage would be better than the food they are serving here!
OOPS! Got to go! It’s the heat! They are taking away my cellie’s phone that he made from a transistor radio! That is how I have been contacting you the last three days. (Hey, is that REALLY necessary? NO! not the gas. ROWRRR!)
D.: Well, it looks like Cal.E. may need to go to AD. Seg. For a LONG time!
And now, chapter seven of Beyond the Thirteenth Mile; The Iron Man Chronicles
CHAPTER SEVEN:
ROAD RASH AND OTHER UNPLEASANT EVENTUATIONS
Bike Leg; Mile sixty-two: I am almost at 100 kilometers on the bike leg. Only fifty more to go on the bike. I am not cramping anymore. I just hope that I do not have an unfortunate accident, like I almost did at the second One-half IronMan distance triathlon course that I attempted.
I probably WAS going more than 38 mph when that crosswind caught my bike going down that steep hill at the beginning of the bike course. My computer would not register the speed I reached on my bike then. If I HAD wiped out at that point, that would have created some SERIOUS road rash, unlike my first accident on a bike. The second time was much worse, but having an accident coming down Sugar Mountain would make my second accident look mild by comparison…
Anyone who has ever been on a bike of any size, shape, or kind has experienced the
dreaded "gravity check" —that fatal moment when you lose your balance and end up with
the bicycle riding you rather than the other way around. Hopefully, the most that you will
bruise is your pride. When your hobby involves riding a bicycle down hills in excess of
forty miles an hour, though, the possibility of damaging much more than one’s self-esteem
always exists. Most cyclists of any ability can show the scars left from one or more of
their serious accidents. The fresh cuts and abrasions that are inevitably present
immediately after an accident are referred to as "road rash."
My first "gravity check" on a road bike was very minor. Ascending a steep hill, I
slipped in some loose gravel and lost my balance. At the pedestrian speed of six miles per
hour, I was fortunate enough to escape the incident with only a bruised shoulder, a scraped
knee, and of course, the inevitable bruised pride (I was the least experienced rider in my
group at the time, so I was determined to ride on no matter how badly my ego was
damaged.)
The next time, however, I wasn't quite so lucky. I am as adamant as anyone about
safety. Not only do I always wear my helmet, but I also insist that anyone who rides with
me does likewise. There are still vulnerable areas on one's head, though, even with a
regulation helmet on one’s head.
My second accident was as much about mental mistakes as it was about physical
ones. I had decided to ride my bike to work to train for a long, two-day ride that
was one or two months away. Being in too much of a rush, I tied my lunch box to the top
tube of the frame of my bike. Less than five miles into my 20-mile trek, the lunch box
slipped, and, unfortunately, became entangled between the fork and the front wheel of
my bike. This caused the bike to stop abruptly. I then became all too familiar with
Newton's first law of thermodynamics, remaining in motion until acted on by an outside
force. In this case, about ten feet of concrete covered by gravel. As I lead with my chin,
the ground located that one vulnerable spot underneath the jaw that boxers and unethical
linemen and linebackers search for when trying to deliver a knockout punch to their
opponent.
When I came to, I was riding in a pickup with an engineer, calmly explaining into his
cell phone why he would not be on time for work. Finishing that conversation, he turned
his attention to me, asking which hospital I would like to be taken to have my chin and
cheek sewn up. I weakly replied that, if he would be so kind as to take me back to my
truck, I could drive myself to work, thank you.
The engineer then flipped down the visor on the passenger's side of the truck, pulling
down the vanity mirror. As I examined my face, he handed me one of my frozen water
bottles to put against the cuts and minimize the bleeding. My "good Samaritan" then
called my roommate and informed him that he was taking me to the closest hospital. I
never saw that Good Samaritan again. Although he obviously went to great pains to
make sure that my bike and all of my personal belongings were in Gabe's (my
roommate) or my possession before leaving, he repeatedly refused any compensation
from either of us.
***********************************************************************
There is never an ideal time to have stitches in one's face, but this was a very, very
bad time. Nicole was having a party that night, and I had already called her with my
confirmation. Even worse, this happened the day before St. Valentine's Day, especially
bad timing for a single, unattached male. To add to the equation, I had developed a
tradition of handing out flowers to all the single, unattached women (those who
were not dating anyone at the time) in my singles’ group at church the Sunday that was
closest to St. Valentine's Day. I had done this every year since me divorce. I had initially done this to
distract and keep me from feeling sorry for myself during what I considered to be a
very stressful time. I later found out that many of my lady friends were a little miffed
when I stopped my little tradition. (Hopefully, none of them took it as an unintended or
undesired pass.)
(Aside: I would later learn that this holiday has the third-highest suicide rate of all
holidays. The suicide rate for St. Valentine’s Day is acceded only by Christmas and
Thanksgiving).
That night, I decided that my face was going to hurt no matter where I was. As a
result of this thinking, I decided to attend Nicole's party. I was self-conscious about the
cuts on my face, though (and worried about them getting infected) so I donned a
‘'Phantom of the Opera" disguise fashioned out of bandages first. I did continue my
tradition that night, handing out flowers to all the females in attendance, saving the
best roses for the hostess.
Whether it was the roses, or my clever disguise is still unclear to me, but I asked Nicole
to a concert about ten days later, and she accepted my invitation. We've talked to each
other on the telephone and/or seen each other every day, save one, since.
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