I think I’ve finally come to the conclusion that there are certain things meant to go between my legs, and a bicycle is not one of them. (Now come on, I was thinking of say, a nice worn pair of Levi’s!) After spending another moment of my life in another bike-related mishap, perhaps I’m ready to hang up the treads for good.

Bob and I had driven up to Jim Thorpe, PA, to ride along the restored railroad trails. Jim Thorpe, originally named Mauch Chunk (don’t ask me to pronounce that!), was renamed after a part-American Indian Olympic athlete. In 1912 he won gold medals in both the pentathalon and decathalon, only to have them taken away because he'd played semi-professional sports in school. His daughter worked for years after his death, and finally, in 1982, his medals were returned.

Jim Thorpe is also called the Switzerland of Pennsylvania, and is completely gorgeous. It was a beautiful day, and I was actually looking forward to some biking, although not as far as Bob hoped. He wanted to ride the entire 22 mile trail, which would have totalled 44 miles on the return trip. Well, I didn't even make it a measly five.

I wimped out pretty soon. The wet gravel, while fine enough, still held rather large stones making for a bumpy ride. The wet didn't help either, making it feel as though I were riding my bike through a mixture of mud, pudding and super-glue. Bob had no troubles, but I faded further and further behind, due to either my tiring muscles or my worsening mood. A "together" activity to me isn't one that includes heavy breathing that prevents conversation (well, I guess some "together" activity does!) so I was becoming rather cranky. Bob noticed, and thankfully, agreed to turn back. A walk through town, some antiquing, maybe a nice lunch - that was my idea of a good "couple" activity.

Whether it was my bad mood, laziness or a combination of both, I could have prevented my fall. I'd crossed over the railroad tracks before, over wooden boards placed to make crossing easier. This time, however, I didn't hit them straight on. My tire hit the one inch board at a 45-degree angle. And it slid. I watched, horrified, as I saw the tire catch and slide along the board, my handlebars turning completely to the left, wrenched from my hands. Like some slow-motion film, I saw the rough boards flying toward me as my decent began.

All I could think was, great! I haven't fallen off my bike sicne I was 12 years old. And that was a dumb fall, since I was weaving in and out down the street and weaved a little to far to the left, toppling the whole contraption in an embarassing spill. This time I was airborn. Thrown off the side, my right hand and knee hit the wood, my right shoulder followed and slammed into the boards. It flipped me over onto my back, where my decent finally stopped. I was in shock, looking at a bloody and chewed up knee, somehow numb compared to my throbbing hand.

I didn't cry. I guess I was too mad, or surprised, or maybe just indignant, that this could happen to worsen my bad mood. Just as we'd decided to turn back, knowing how much I was ruining Bob's good time on the trail. Thankfully he patched me up, going into a bike store to buy a first aid kit because I was too embarassed to walk in there all bloody. And with everyone scared of AIDS, walking into a store with blood running down my leg and asking for a bandaid just didn't seem a politically correct thing to do.

All week long I wore a great big patch on my knee, and forget about wearing skirts, let alone even shaving that leg to even put a skirt on.

Give me the open road any day, and a good pair of Saucony shoes to run in, and I'm happy. I was made to run, and little else. Biking is fun, and I'd rather a nice flat road to burn some rubber, but running on my own power is accomplishment and success. I have time to enjoy the scenery, to take in the view, to think! Everthing else is too fast, or too complicated. On the Track team, I used to throw javelin (and catch javelin!) and run the 300m hurdles, but even those were eventually given over for simple pure running events. The original sport.

I think if my next adventure includes a bicycle it will be a stationary one.

My Stories
The Art of Being Human

Email: artofbeinghuman@yahoo.com