C.: Well, d.c. is working on his truck, and I think he may be having some difficulty. That’s what I gathered from the words I heard next door. These were words I didn’t know could be combined. I think his son, who lives two miles away, may have heard him, too. The one that now lives seventy miles away may have also been able to hear him. The one that now lives in D.C. may have even been able to hear him. That’s how frustrated he was. One of these days, d.c. is going to learn that “simple” and “mechanical issue” are mutually exclusive terms.
Anyway, I don’t much feel like talking to myself, so I’m just going to read. Y’all are welcome to join me. I’m on chapter seven of d.c. scot’s manuscript BEYOND THE THIRTEENTH MILE: THE IRON MAN CHRONICLES. This chapter is called “Road Rash and Other Unpleasant Consequences.” I wonder what it’s about? Let’s find out.
CHAPTER SEVEN: ROAD RASH AND OTHER UNPLEASANT CONSEQUENCES
1200: Bike leg; Mile 62:
I’m almost at 100 kilometers on the bike leg. Only 50 more miles to go on the bike course of this race. I’m not cramping anymore. I just hope I don’t have an unfortunate accident, like I almost did at the second one-half Ironman distance triathlon course 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 wouldn’t register the speed I reached on my bike then. If I’d wiped out at that point, it 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 you will bruise is your pride. When your hobby involves riding a bicycle down hills in excess of 40 mph, though, the possibility of damaging much more than your 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. Mountain bikers experience “gravity checks” on a regular basis. It’s all part of the experience. However, the usual dirt surface is much more forgiving than a paved road. My first real “gravity check" was on a paved surface.
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, 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’m as adamant as anyone about safety. Not only do I always wear my helmet when riding a bicycle, but I also insist that anyone who rides with me does likewise. There are still vulnerable areas on your head, though, even if you’re wearing a regulation helmet.
My second accident was as much about mental mistakes as it was about physical ones. I decided to ride my bike to work in order to train for a long, two-day ride that was 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 and didn’t secure it properly. 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. As any experienced cyclist knows, you don’t use your front brakes to slow down a moving bicycle. However, the lunch box getting caught between the front fork of my bike and the spokes of the front wheel caused a braking effect, stopping the bike abruptly. I immediately became all too familiar with Newton's first law of motion, remaining in motion until acted on by an outside force—in this case, about ten feet of concrete covered by gravel. Since I led with my chin, the ground located that one vulnerable spot underneath the jaw that boxers and unethical defensive 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 a civil engineer, who was calmly explaining on his cell phone why he wouldn’t be on time for work. I recognized his equipment, since my father had recently retired from that occupation. That was amazing, since I could barely remember my own name!
After finishing his phone conversation, the engineer turned his attention to me, asking me to which hospital’s emergency room 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 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 my personal belongings were in my roommate Gabe's or my possession before leaving, he repeatedly refused any compensation from either of us.
***
There is never an ideal time to have stitches in your 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 Valentine's Day, especially bad timing for a single, unattached male. To add to my frustration, I had developed a tradition of handing out flowers to all the single, unattached women (those who weren’t dating anyone at the time) in my singles group at church the Sunday that was closest to Valentine's Day. I had done this every year since my divorce. I had initially done it 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.
(I would later learn that this holiday has the third-highest suicide rate of all holidays. The suicide rate for Valentine’s Day is exceeded only by Christmas and Thanksgiving. My hope was that a friendly gesture would help relieve at least one person’s depression, even if it was only my own.)
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. I reasoned (correctly) that I would be in too much pain to attend church services the next day. Stiffness and pain are usually much worse the day after an accident than the day of the accident. Mine certainly were.
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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