(That's me, the one not facing the camera holding the tandem stable.)
Twenty-odd years ago, I was a cyclist logging 3,000-5,000 road miles a year. I hit my all-time personal best sporting a stylish white plastic nose guard in order to keep the remaining skin from peeling off my sunburned nose. Funny how that’s what I remember the most.
(That little girl wearing my helmet and glasses started college last year.)
That was 50 pounds, 3 jobs, 2 tattoos, and one wicked cycling accident ago. My gradual slide away from outdoor recreational activities came down to two things: having to spend all my spare time growing my business; and the injuries from The Accident No One Remembers But Me (the aforementioned “wicked”). After physical therapy x2, The Accident leaves me with a limp, chronic pain in a rotator cup, and a neck injury that still needs the occasional chiropractic adjustment.
Perhaps I shouldn’t place all the blame on one single incident. There was The Fall From The Horse, The Fall From the Horse 2: She Can’t Jump, and The Trip Down The Stairs that have messed with my mobility – probably screwed me over psychologically as well, but with all the other things that have happened to me over the years, who can tell anymore?
(This is Wendy. She balked on a jump, I went clean over her head, and she bit me, too. I don't have any pictures of the horse that broke my nose and gave me a concussion.)
On the day that I couldn’t take the pain any longer, I found myself in the emergency room getting a mega-dose of ibruprophen shot into my cheek (not the face), and receiving three pills of a narcotic painkiller that was so effective, I can’t even recall the name of it. It’s been years since I’ve even had an aspirin; I want to get back on the road again.
I have to replace my helmet. Safety first! I did crash it – and then kept it as a souvenir, what’s up with that?
(Bad photo of new helmet.)
The Asian Girl road bike that has been stored upstairs for the past nine years is currently at Porter’s Bike Shop (in Swanton) being rehabbed. When I bought it, the salesman at Essex Bike Shop (no longer in business) had remarked, “We only sell those to Asian girls,” because it was designed for petites to be able to keep up with “normal-sized” bikes. It has a large rear wheel and a smaller front one – more maneuverable and less tippy for the shorties. I was recently told that a replacement – ideally one at a lighter weight - would be difficult to find. I have to doctor it up.
(It's a Terry Gambit, there are no dealers left in Vermont.)
The frame was only nicked in The Accident - so a dusting, tire change, new pedals, and maybe a replacement chain should be enough to get it back on the road.
In no time at all I will be spitting out bugs, sprayed by manure haulers, sucked into the drafts of careening logging trucks, and choked by smoldering ditch burns. There’s also that learning curve specific to biking to contend with: discovering where all the unsecured dogs, glass fines, and occasional bear might show up.
Now, what was my motivation for cycling?
(I show up in very few photos. That is Dan on the tandem, and his uncle. I think we were in Canada, which was a great spot for cycling because it is mostly flat and there was not much traffic if you crossed at Morse's Line. These days, I doubt we could ride as freely between borders.)
Note to self: purchase baby wipes, a patch kit, and a can of pepper spray.
