I don't own a bike. I forgot there was a reason for that.
It's because I'm an uncoordinated spastic nerfbag.
I used to have a blue Schwinn lowrider with ape-hanger handlebars. One time I was crossing Vine Street, riding in a pair of 4" platform black velour mules, and when I rode off the curb my heels hit the street and sparks flew as the metal heel plates scraped the pavement. I crashed and burned after fishhooking an unintentional turn when I saw what I thought were flames shooting out of my shoes.
After I healed up, I figured a second chance on the lowrider was worth it, and rode into Chinatown. Instead of navigating the very not real bike lanes around 10th and Cherry, I foolishly scooted up on the sidewalk for a few feet before planning to jump the curb back into the road. I lost a round of chicken against a 93-year old Chinese woman and instead got up close and personal with a mailbox, ripping a decent-sized hole in my head.
A couple years later I borrowed my old housemate, Karen's sweet mountain bike, while she was in Europe, to go to the Reading Terminal. The front tire got caught in a trolley track and I went over the handlebars, effectively mashing the eggs, produce and beef jerky I scored from the Amish, and decimating the welcome home cake I'd gotten for Karen. I had to make an emergency call to my bike-expert friend Tim to come to the house and put K's bike back together, complete with bending the frame's metal tubing back into place and painting in the raw gashes.
Last summer, JW decided to load up his bike and one of the garage spares into the wagon and bring them to the city so we could tool around. He got clipped by a car on Delaware Avenue, and ever since, his bike has been upside-down and tireless in my living room. Since we've only recently gotten out of the 40s around here, the mountain has been keeping the other company, and for lack of space we play Scrabble in the kitchen.
When the temperatures hit the 70s, I figured this was my big chance to flip off public trans and get to work on my own power, without whiplash from overzealous brakers or having to watch every mother of two smack her kids in the face and call them stupid. A win-win, I thought. So I busted out some cargo shorts and rode off into the morning mist, backpack over my shoulders. If you are familiar with my standard wardrobe, you would immediately recognize that me on a bike and me in shorts are the second and third horseman of the apocalypse and that this story won't be ending well.
I rode that sweet Cannondale with the springy forks and treaded pedals to work two days without incident. My ego was practically aflame, as I'd clearly beaten back a bloody history of years of defeat at cyclery's hands.
Yesterday, I was riding home about 6 o'clock, in the bike lane, down a major thoroughfare with no traffic. Just as I was getting up alongside a giant maple tree mid-block, there was a gust of wind. Next thing I know, I'm in a cyclone of swirling maple seedlings -- green and brown autorotating helicopters -- and they're whipping me in the face and eyes. I jackknifed the handlebars and fell in slow motion for ten minutes. When I stopped rolling, I was at the corner, and the woman stopped at the perpendicular traffic light was screaming at the top of her lungs because she thought I was dead. And her son and daughter in the back seat joined in with a chorus of, OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!
Miraculously, the bike was unharmed. Mostly because I broke its fall, with both knees, my right foot, right ankle, back of right thigh, right shoulder, backpack and skull. Roadrash is roadrash, but the injuries sustained from the bike parts are a suprisingly accurate story of which part got stuck in which flesh at which time. But the crowning glory is definitely the giant green egg above my right temple. I'm the coolest girl in kindergarten.
humor