Little Red Riding Hurts

I swear I do not go looking for situations like this. They just come at me, thick and fast, like garlic breath on a close talker.

Last night I got drunk. On the way home from work I stopped by the local loud talkers convention to drink as many free beers as I could, turns out it was all of them. I hung out with Good Conversations for a couple of hours talking about such things as love and toys, and then went home to get ready for the rock show at Barb’s Buns. I drank more beer at home and by the time I was ready I was exceedingly drunk. Responsible adult that I am, I decided to ride my bike to town, for safety’s sake. I packed a few beers for the ride and set out. It was an uneventful ride, the only highlight being when I swerved into traffic trying to open a beer can. I spilled a little too, which irked me more than anything else. I worked the door at the rock show, because Squirrel clearly has a doorman deficiency and was just letting everybody walk in for free. Afterward, Squirrel went to a party that was uphill, and I only like riding downhill, so I went over to Moby’s for more beer and nonsense, except that the beer became rye and ginger, and stronger each time. By the time they closed I was exceedingly drunk. I pulled my bike out from behind the woodshed and began swerving again, this time towards home. About halfway there I crashed right into the ditch, and this was no ordinary ditch. It was more like a small valley. This ditch can probably be seen on Google Earth. I had to ride it out, and almost did, but for the pothole that sent me tumbling. I picked myself up and got back on the bike, still in the ditch, and then a car drove up.

“Did you crash in the ditch?"

“Who, me? No I’m checking the drainage. Yup, it looks pretty good. I’m just going to ride down here. It’s safer that way, you know? Shouldn’t be on the road this late at night.”

The car carried on. I pushed my bike back up the bank, and that was when I noticed the rear brake was broken. A smart man, a sober man, might have decided to walk at that point. No rear brakes on a bike is a bad idea, especially considering it was all downhill from there. But riding is faster than walking, and I like going faster. It really did go downhill from there. I made it to my road, the steepest part of the journey, and decided to call Squirrel to see how his night went. There I was, with my phone in my right hand, leaving a message for Squirrel about how much fun I had at Moby’s, my left hand gingerly tweaking the front brake to keep my speed down for the upcoming corner, when I wobbled a little, and squeezed the brake way too hard.

Do you watch gymnastics? The floor routine? I believe they call it tumbling. Last night I was a tumbler, except the floor wasn’t so much springy as fresh asphalt. It was as though I had an ejector seat. I launched headfirst over the bars in a tucked position, somersaulting, as the bike did two full rotations behind me. For a split second I thought I was going to stick the landing, that is, until I actually landed. Then came the tumbling. I lay on the road, moaning and gasping for breath, and then noticed my phone about eight feet away, still on, still leaving a message. When I could finally drag my tired body off the tarmac I decided it might be a good idea to walk the rest of the way, and then quickly changed my mind, because riding really is much faster. I just didn’t use my phone again.

This morning I woke up to my phone ringing somewhere in my bed. It was Squirrel calling to see if I was ok. Apparently he heard everything in the message I left him, the talking, the tumbling, and sounds like a baby elephant being eaten alive by a pride of lions.

I think in the end it was another good experience. It turns out I am ok, maybe not in the head, but we already knew that, and I learned some valuable lessons;

1. Don’t ride a bike that only has front brakes down a hill, one handed, in the dark, while you talk on the phone.

2. Nobody needs a helmet.

And once again;

3. I cannot fly.

4. I cannot die.