The story you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed to protect the guilty. This is the city. Columbus, Ohio. I ride here… I’m a triathlete. Or, at least I try to be. It was Thursday, July 7th. It was sunny in Columbus. Leslie, Kimberly, and I were riding the 50 mile loop from Hoover Reservoir. 8 miles to go back to the parking lot. Leslie was pulling us up a mild incline. 20 MPH. I was in the middle. Who says I can’t keep up with a blonde? Kimberly was bringing up the rear. Red heads are tough; plus, I know she wanted to be close to me. How close? We were ready to find out.
Don’t ask me what happened. Suffice it to say that when two objects in motion (Leslie’s back wheel, now known as the party of the first part and my back wheel, now known as the party of the second part -) try to occupy the same space at the same time the result is a rather precipitous loss of forward momentum by the party of the second part and all of the other associated parts (the frame, the back wheel, the aero bars, me, etc.) This, in turn, imparts a significant loss of momentum to the collective party of the third part (Kimberly, her bike, her helmet, etc). Translation for all the lay people out there: spectacular crash involving parties of the second and third part. I’m on the ground (hard) eye-to-eye with a dead chipmunk, assorted cigarette butts, beer cans, large pieces of asphalt, and Kimberly (who had the “good fortune” to fall on top of me. The world is spinning…quite literally. And, I don’t think it is because a very attractive redhead is sprawled on top of me.
We pick ourselves up (very slowly). Kimberly reveals her sailor background by using some quite colorful language; Leslie joins in (upon her return, after she realizes no one is volunteering to pull up the remainder of the hill - where did everybody go?). I’m still trying to figure out my name and what I’m doing on the side of the road and where these girls came from…Slowly, very slowly, I begin to come back. Then we begin the inspection: Bikes are OK! Major sighs of relief. Then, personal inspection: No broken bones (we think). Find the shoes (still on the bike - I was knocked out of them), find the water bottles, put “stuff” back together. Straighten aero bars, straighten seat. I’m a little wobbly. Kimberly is OK. Can we ride back to the cars? Only about 8 miles. You bet.
Made it back to the parking lot and managed to get the bike back on the car but realized by then that I was in no condition to drive; Leslie volunteers to drive me over to the nearest doc-in-box place but about half way there I’m asking myself why some blonde is driving my car and why am I not quite sure who I am anymore…Leslie gets the message and we head for the nearest emergency room.
I hear they were quite nice to me at the ER (don’t remember), I got a CAT scan (don’t remember), also got some other x-rays (don’t remember), but do remember the lab tech scrubbing the road rash for two hours…seems the hospital staff frowns on leaving gravel, cigarette butts, and chipmunk remains in open abrasions. Yep, that part I do remember. And, I do remember them turning down my request for Demerol. Also remember that I did ask if the M-Dot tattoo was scraped (hey, you always remember your priorities - it was not). Phone the next door neighbor to give him a heads up, and that he will have to drive my wife over to the ER to pick me up. Then phone home. Wife is not pleased. Vaguely recall hearing her cast aspersions upon my intelligence level. Who can I blame this on? Leslie and Kimberly are still hanging with me in the ER. Next door neighbor shows up. His wife shows up. My wife shows up. Doc shows up. RN comes in. Talk about party time in ER. Neighbor asks if the bike is OK (he is a good guy); his wife just shakes her head. My wife is muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “asshole”. Leslie and Kimberly figure this is a good time to bail. ER says they have a room for me…yep, spend the night. “You ain’t a goin’ no where.”
The rest is anti-climactic, so to speak. Spent the night. Had someone or another peer into my eyes every two hours or so, and got discharged late Friday afternoon. Banged up and bruised. But, no permanent damage (except to ego). Bike: Need a new rear wheel (bent pretty bad), new bar tape, new shoes (sides were ripped open), new helmet.
Gee, can I sue anyone?
Leslie: Nope. She would never speak to me again, let alone let me ride behind her.
Kimberly: Nope. Anytime she wants to fall over me, she is more than welcome to.
My tri coach: After all, he was the one who told me to do a group ride that day. Nope. Need him for IM FL. Also need him to get me back on the bike ASAP.
Kestrel: It is a true speed machine. And, it should have had a collision avoidance system. Nope. It survived quite well, and even if I smashed it, I’d just get another one.
Giro: Hey, they made the helmet. And, it (literally) fell apart (on the inside). And raised small welt. Nope. On the flip side, it saved my life. On the other hand, I’m sure I overheard my wife saying she would like to sue Giro because the helmet did save my life…has something to do with her being beneficiary on my life insurance policy.
Pearl Izumi: My shoulder is full of jersey material - they should make jerseys out of Kevlar. A tremendous oversight. It did hurt to have all that material scraped out. May be an opportunity here.
I’ve got it…can I sue myself? This would be a truly novel approach. Not sure if I would collect anything, but I’m willing to bet I could prove that I was at fault (if anyone is to blame, it really was me…hey Leslie, you hear that?). The net-net, the bottom line: these kinds of things (crashes) will happen. It is that momentary lapse of concentration that will get you. You will get road rash, meet dead chipmunks on the side of the road, get trips to the ER, and really irritate your spouse. But, you deal with it. And, you heal up and get ready to do it all again. And, wear a helmet. The best you can afford. It will save your life.
