According to my master plan, I shall not purchase the road bike until
October, even November. The original reasoning was one of money conservation
and thorough research before making this purchase.
In the meantime, in an effort to conserve fuel and get some exercise, I
decided to dust off my trusty Trek 850. The stories behind this bike are not
very interesting.
But I don't think I published this to this list or not, but last March I had
parachuted in Buckey, AZ. The day before, I went mountain biking on the
rocks in Sedona. Anyway, I thought what happened in Sedona was just bad
luck, but I'm starting to think it was an omen.
What happened in Sedona was, after a full day of walking my bike on the
rocks and through the canyons, on the way back to the bike rental shop,
while travelling on a dirt, yet straight, path, some invisible force
propelled me into a tree. The lasting result is a nearly foot long scar
running down my left thigh. It looks like a true battle wound, something
that could conjur up images of me, in an act of athletic glory, failing to
make that landing from one rock to another, but the true story is, there was
simply no reason for me to hit that tree.
My other two accidents, which happened last Friday, are no less glamarous,
but are, I believe, a form of communication, in the shape of an accident.
The first message occured in the morning, as I was lifting up the bike rack
at the front of the bus. I was merely waving to the bus driver, the polite
thing to do, while stepping backwards. Well, what happened was, I don't know
what happened. I tripped over the bike, and fell on my right side, on to my
bike.
And it really hurt, and I was really embarassed, but that just pales in
comparison to what happened later, that fateful afternoon.
I decided to get off at San Quentin, to get in a full ride all the way home
to downtown San Rafael.
It was a lot hotter in San Rafael than in Pt. Richmond. So, I tied my
sweatshirt around my waist.
And what happened was, I was peddling as hard as I could, have to get in
shape, you know, approaching a very busy intersection, signaling, with
confidence, that I was going to turn left in the middle of a whole bunch of
angry people in their cars who could kill me quite easily, if they wanted
to.
And suddenly, my trusty 850 was slowing down, for no reason. What? Is the
tire going flat? What's going on? Better pull over, I thought. Get out of
the way. So, it was as I was turning right to pull over that my sweatshirt
completely locked the rear wheel, and I suddenly went sliding down the
asphalt, landing in precisely the same spots, the same bruises, where I had
fallen that morning, while saluting the bus driver.
It really hurt, yet, somehow, as I was falling, I felt like I knew what I
was doing, flopping to the ground like that. Practice really does make
perfect. And although I did not see the car coming, I had successfully moved
my being and bike to the side of the road, and began a pacing-limping ritual
first perfected after landing in the tree.
But what hurt more were the two drunk women who saw the whole thing in the
bar, and came running over to help me. "Man, you almost got killed!" said
one of them. "Holy $#it, you need some water, honey?"
I wanted to just keep going, to just get this out of my system.
"Girl, you need to sit down. Look at her, shakin' like that."
"Looks like you need to get used to your bike, honey."
"You almost got hit by that car, did you see that? That was close!"
"Ah, she's got some road burn on 'er, look at that!"
"Ooowee, how you gonna get home?"
I escaped that terrible scene, and thankfully, eventually, made it home.
Thanks to a friend, who happened to be nearby, who gave me a ride home in
her Saab.
If anything, I'm developing a deeper respect for gravity.
Katie K.
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