Ride From Hell, Part II

10 Jun

Where did we leave off? Ahh yes…I had taken a dive and then been dissed by Ricky Schroder.  After my graceful maneuver with the kid, my husband and I decided it was time to get off the trail. Fighting cars on the open road suddenly seemed less dangerous. So we hit the street and in no time, we were cruising.

Ten miles later, my right knee gave out; completely and without warning. I could stand, but pedaling was out of the question. (I wonder if it had anything to do with how it slammed into the ground half an hour before?) Anyway, having one bum knee isn’t awesome when you’re riding a bike. It’s kind of a two-legged thing.

Fortunately we weren’t very far from home, maybe 5 miles. We talked it over and considered the options. They were all pretty bad: walk barefooted so I didn’t ruin my biking shoes, wait while my husband went home for the Jeep, or ride one-legged. I decided to ride home with the one leg. It wasn’t far, and it felt like a challenge. I was up for it. Suddenly I was in the trenches, like Ralphie’s dad with a flat tire. Bring it on.

The only thing was, I had to ride up a very long and winding hill, maybe a mile. This thing is no gimmee, even with two legs. But I was excited about it. I knew I could do it.

So I started up the hill. And I was doing it; grunting through the fire in my left thigh, fighting for every little inch of distance. It was awesome.

I must’ve been about half way up when I heard a loud noise behind me, like a car backfiring. I looked over my left shoulder and saw this junked up, ancient motorhome coming up behind me, swerving like it was out of control, right into the bike lane. Right where I was.

So much for the traffic being safer.

I didn’t even have time to think. This monstrous POS was coming up behind me, oblivious to the fact that it was about to run me down. It backfired again, louder this time. Closer. I did the only thing I could. I freaked out and threw it to the right.

At this point it was beginning to feel like my signature move.

Only this time I had a 5-6 in. curb to tangle with before I landed “safely” on the sidewalk. Sweet.

When the dust settled, the attack Winnebago was in front of me, about 25 feet up the hill, broken down on the side of the road. Shockingly I was fine. For the second time in less than an hour, I crawled to my feet and picked myself up from the wreckage. I started walking my bike up the hill, trying to decide how to handle this.

I was pissed. Who the hell drives like that? Honk the horn! Throw me a bone or something. And not only did I almost get squashed by this random wanker in his 1950‘s motorhome (could it get any worse?) but my super human effort to make it up the hill one-legged was now shot. (I so could’ve done it.) I was torn between climbing in the front door of the broken down beast and clawing the eyes out of the driver (like a Mentos commercial gone wrong) or just walking by, too disgusted to even speak.

I headed up the hill and figured I’d let fate decide.

As I got to the motorhome (a truly classic display of obscene graffiti covering the entire right side), a gnarly looking guy, complete with shaggy grey hair, mustache, and cut off jean shorts, came stumbling out the passenger door. He looked at me, and are you ready? Said nothing. Not, “Hey, sorry I almost killed you a second ago,” or “Are you okay?” or even, “Want a beer? ‘Cause I’ve got a few under the seat that I didn’t drink yet.”

You’re expecting a scene here, I can feel it.  And with good reason, ‘cause I was too.

But the truth is, as soon as this burner shuffled down the two rusting grates that served as steps, all I could think was, “1972 called. They want their faded, fringed shorts/mustache/hair back.”

Fate had intervened and handed me this cat. Far out, man. Can you dig?

I burst out laughing, my anger replaced with a wave of hysteria. Can you imagine the pictures in the paper if something had happened? Of all the ways to go. It should’ve been a van (with a tear drop shaped window in the upper back corner). NICE. Run down by an aging Jeff Spicoli, without the pizza. I shook my head, gave him the finger and walked my bike the rest of the way home.

Looking back, the ride that day was not a favorite.  Although, I bet even Lance Armstrong didn’t have a signature move this early in his career.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: