Weekly Damage Report ("W.D.R")

I finally blew the dust off my mountain bike this week, after it had been hanging neglected in my garage for the past 18 months. A YEAR AND A HALF had passed since I rode last... ouch. I think I've dropped from 'sport-class racer' below the status of 'recreational rider' to 'hazard on 2 wheels'. The following story is evidence of this.

After spending the week rehabilitating the bike (new cables, re-bled the brakes, tried to remember air pressures for the suspension, LOOB, etc), I finally decided to go for a spin on Thursday. The weather was nice, I had nothing going on until the evening... perfect day for a ride. But for some reason my body didn't want to go -- one of those times when cleaning out the dryer lint suddenly seemed urgent enough to mandate immediate attention. Regardless (with the dryer ventilating properly and DVD's freshly re-organized) I finally set out riding. Actually felt pretty good too, still felt "natural" to be sitting on the bike seat (which possibly should raise some concerns). When I started to feel my breathing quicken and a little bit of burn settle into my legs, I checked my watch... 3 minutes. I'm not kidding. 18 months.

So I kept riding... down from the bluff, along the beach, up through Dana point, and straight into the trap that some evil developer set for me years ago. Up ahead of me I see a big concrete curb, the kind that swoops up from a driveway (which is known to every kid -- myslef included -- as a natural skateboard/bike ramp). Throughout my childhood these driveway edges were a virtual gift from the city, especially back in the day before "skate parks" and "bicycle recreation areas". Back in MY day we did it on the street and at construction sites. Try flat-landing a 6-foot lot-line on a 1981 Huffy. Back then "suspension" was when your handlebars bent downward or your rims folded. I spent a large part of my childhood commuting between the "ramp" in my driveway (which consisted of a piece of plywood set on top of a 2' tall bench, which fell over if you looked at it wrong) and the Bactine & Kleenex in the bathroom. So you would think that I would have been either a) well-prepared, or b) adequately forewarned regarding this wonderful curb. Apparently I was neither.

I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I remember standing up and pedaling in big-ring towards the launch area. Then I remember the all-too-familiar sensation of my front wheel disappearing as it slid to the side in front of me. Recollection of prior crashes told me that I had approximately 0.25 seconds before I would hit the ground under these circumstances. (Side note: I'm always baffled by how the supposedly "constant" value of gravitational acceleration increases directly according to how fast I'm going. Rocks and cactus seem to affect this value as well.) Long story short, instead of flying off the curb-ramp and sailing Evel Knievel-style through the air, I did my best sack-of-hammers impersonation as I smacked the ground and proceeded to slide for about 20 feet into a large bush. The immediate after-crash assessment is always kind of funny: "I'm not in traffic... no one's coming behind me to run me over... bike has stopped sliding... can't move my left shoulder... left knee missing skin... patch kit in jersey pocket gone... glad I didn't bring my iPod... I hope no one pulls over to check on me... dang it I have branches sticking out of my helmet... still can't lift my left arm... where'd my water bottle go?... bike still works... I'm outta here before someone comes back to see if I'm ok." I forgot to mention that I was leading a pack of cars that had been lined up to make a left turn onto Stonehill down by Costco in Dana Point -- I'm pretty sure at least 30-40 people had a front row seat. I don't know if I've ever seen anyone eat it in traffic as a spectator, but it's got to be awesome. I'm pretty sure I would laugh for at least a half hour if I saw someone eat it like that. I mean after making sure they were ok first. Which is exactly why I had to get away from there, and fast. Nothing worse than "Golly gee, are you ok? Wow that was a terrific spill! Do you want me to call 911? Have you ever ridden a bike before? I found one of your shoes down the street..." Much worse than the actual fall, I can assure you.

I was going to call it a day and limp home, but I looked at my watch and saw that 12 minutes and 28 seconds had elapsed since standing in my driveway. The mean part of my brain yelled, "There is no way you're marking your comeback with a sub-13 minute ride... cowboy up and keep riding!" So I did, and it was actually a pretty nice ride -- it felt good to go fast, and it felt good to feel my legs burning again. And honestly, it kind of feels good to get hurt once in a while (with an important distinction between "hurt" and "injured"). Hopefully the W.D.R. will continue to blossom with comedy at my expense. Now where's that ibuprofen??