Gravity and inertia take their inevitable effect. I land tangled up in bike. The part of me that is still unaware or in denial wants to jump up instantly and carry on. The subconscious truly knowing part of me takes over and commands my body to stop, to lie still, to take stock before moving another muscle.
I lie there slowly realizing that in my haste to join Teri, as I cut through an empty parking lot early on a Saturday morning, I had totally missed seeing a steep unmarked speed bump. Faster than I could react to my spill, a cyclist 100 feet away ran to my aid. There is an elegant pervasive code in the cycling community. We take care of each other. We recognize the frailty, the danger that comes with this challenging sport. We take care of our fellow travelers. Even I who still feels like a visitor at times among the far more experienced cyclists do immediately feel this sense of kinship, affiliation—this bond.
I rose, not wanting to delay my group's 7:45 a.m. wheels rolling target any further. "I have to meet someone." I explained to the man offering aid." No. You need to take care of yourself first, " he insisted. "Did you hit your head?" he asked as he ran for his supply of antiseptic salve and bandages.
Slowly the reality of the moment sunk in. I was bleeding on hands and arms and knees. I took the first aid supplies from my benefactor. Thanked him. Knowing my group was only a block or two away I figured I would ride over to them, but then realized that my handlebars and shifters were in a strange new configuration. It no longer seemed prudent to mount the bike, so I called Teri, let her know that I had wiped out, and slowly walked back to my car, only a few yards away. I drove to the rendezvous point and wished the others a good ride before heading home. My cycling for the day, my cycling for this week was done.
I am loving this whole cycling adventure! Yes I am loving it, bumps in the road included. No I am not a masochist—at least I think not. I do not enjoy the pain. What I value is the learning. Today's message can be a simple one—keep your head in the game. Be awake. Be aware. Be conscious. Be present. Observe what is right in front of you. So many ways to say it.
Where was I when that bump arose from nowhere to attack my bike? Part of me was a few blocks away greeting Teri and her friends. Part of me was being held hostage by a state of haste. Part of me may have been in judgment and anger at being a few minutes late, at not giving myself the time to exit the house at a comfortable pace, to drive to Woodside, to park the car, to deploy my bike—all the little things I would like to have done consciously and deliberately, but was doing in a hurry. Part of me was proud that I showed up at all for any part of a ride heading up Old La Honda Road. Part of me may have been in fear of the same thing. Part of me may have been a saboteur knowing I had so many other things to do before traveling the following day.
Clearly none of me was watching the road, and that, I conclude, is a basic requirement of cycling. I just spit out a bunch of simple messages in the preceding paragraph. I like this one better. It is so pithy—"Watch the road."
I chuckle. It reminds me of how, as a young stickball player, each spring it would take me some time to remember, "keep your eye on the ball"—another basic tenet in the overall category of "watch what you are doing." My dad used to say it this way—"Doug, be careful." And that's what I plan on doing.
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