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01-14-04, 12:28 PM
My cycling season ended when I hit the pavement face first at Cermak and Archer. I was a Warrior on my bike, a Knight, a Snake Charmer and a Buddha, but in an instant I became all too human. I’ve cycled thousands of miles answering only to my whims, been the master of my universe, courted, challenged and averted disasters. Silenced the ache of a broken heart, eased pains and fears various and sundry; brought my father back to life. Felt right at home in a physical world. Suddenly it was over with nothing left but doubt. Confidence in my abilities shattered. The ride started normally. A nice autumn day, bright sun and crisp air; just a short ride before obligations. Warming up, I hadn’t even begun to say my prayers when I was picking myself up off the ground then falling back down. I didn’t see it coming, I didn’t have time to react. I was on my bike one second, next I was trying to stand and then collapsing to the sidewalk. An event sudden without a chance to counteract. Flung into abandon like a booger off the finger of God.
My cycling season began in full effect when Ben from Chicagoland Bicycle called last February. “Good news,your Merckx just came in.” I had ordered it special the previous October and was told it could take up to six months. I wanted a special color and I wanted “Mayonnaise” painted on the top tube. I hate the guys on my team that have great bikes but take themselves too seriously; precious little b****es. “Mayonnaise” on the top tube keeps me grounded, keeps the ego from getting too heady. Have a great bike and have fun, just don’t be a PAB about it. Ben built it like the pro he is and I rode it everywhere. I took it through the Rocky Mountains where it climbed like a surefooted Mt. Goat and descended with the precision of a straight rule. Trail Ridge Road I’ll always remember. Climbed to 12,000 feet into winter and then descended as fast as fear would allow (51mph) back into summer again. Back in Chicago I went from being a nobody on the South Chicago Wheelmen to a challenger. I never won a Tuesday Criterium (5th place my best finish) but I influenced the outcome of the races and did my share of pulling the train. I love the feeling of being in a tight pack at 30mph almost as much as I love setting the pace and looking back and seeing 30 guys sucking my ass. I love riding at night so anticipation for the LATE ride was strong. Thousands of cyclists gather at Buckingham Fountain at 1:00 AM and ride through the city until dawn when they serve breakfast. It’s not a race but 20 or so of us wouldn’t accept that. We headed North on LSD which has been closed to cyclists only. I passed rider after rider in a fury because I had to be number one. Had a couple of challengers but all that climbing in Colorado made me hard to beat. I kept asking the cops stationed along the route “anyone ahead.” Pretty soon they were answering, “you’re the first.” A moment frozen in time: an empty Lake Shore Drive, no one ahead, no one behind as far as I can see; a quiet summer night without cars, moon bright and beautiful; me spinning silently breathing gaseous euphoria.
A fixed convert, Masi, Yojimbos, blah blah blah woof woof woof, you know the rest.
I pray on my bicycle. I observe my world and turn it into prayer. I say my prayers aloud. “God, the sun is warm today. I feel strong today. The geese fly with beauty today. I love the smell of the chocolate factory. I love the sound my bicycle makes. I love the feeling of drinking pure water, ice cold. Someone is cutting their grass and it smells nice. I’m getting along okay without you today, Dad. My legs make me feel sexy and strong. Hello Mister Squirrel, my dog Fergus would love to invite you over for dinner” Whatever I see I make into pleasing phrases. My prayer ends with gratitude. “Thank you for my life today. Thank you for my bike ride today. Thank you for my health. Thank you for beauty in the world. Thank you.”
On the Amazon a butterfly folds its wings. A sudden contraction of muscles along a left side posterior human appendage, creating force at 27 psi on a lever which pulls a tightly woven, Teflon encased metal cable transferring 23lbs of said force to a pivotal side pull Record braking device, bolted firmly to a minimally raked, chrome plated velocipede fork with a braking compound making sudden contact on aluminum alloy compound radial spoked device causing a sudden catastrophic *********** in forward momentum: a practical application of Faucault’s “Catapult Effect.” [spoken facsimile of Bill Kurtis] “consider Mr. Humphrey “Mayonnaise” Earwicker, catapulted forward through space in a fetal position, frozen momentarily in time, arches upward towards the heavens, pauses, turns downward and hurtles at 32 feet per second squared, same speed as a bowling ball less significant than the fall from grace, towards Newton’s apple.” Pneumo cased melon,driven through asphalt, gravel, soil, Michael Bolton records, bedrock, magma, emerges stock still, supine in Chinatown. Thud. “Mr. Mayonnaise, my name is Dr. Patel, can you hear me? You’re in the Emergency Room at Best Western Immunity Corpuscle. You’re in shock. You’ve taken a nasty fall, your teeth are tied in knots, you’ve got pig iron in your arrogance, and infectious Abe Vagoda corruption. We’re doing what we can but you keep aging. We can’t give you painkillers until we Czech 4 drain bamage. Your father will be here shortly to take you home.
It’s coffin cold in Chicago. I feel old and afraid. The world offers only dangers, sorrows and trauma. I haven’t been on the bike since my crash. They’re both out in the garage, haunting me with their intolerable silence. I drink myself to sleep and fall into nondescript gray dreams, slogging through invisibility. I wake too early in the morning with a poison headache. Music has no sound, wine no inspiration. Coffee no restoration. Without my bike I am nothing, and I am too afraid of death to mount. There’s blood on my shoes, blood on my Masi. If only I had a chance, an opportunity to avoid the crash, to out maneuver it, to have influence in the physical world, I wouldn’t feel so fragile. But I didn’t. My confidence spilled on the asphalt that day. I pass each day in gloom waiting for its return.
My cycling season began in full effect when Ben from Chicagoland Bicycle called last February. “Good news,your Merckx just came in.” I had ordered it special the previous October and was told it could take up to six months. I wanted a special color and I wanted “Mayonnaise” painted on the top tube. I hate the guys on my team that have great bikes but take themselves too seriously; precious little b****es. “Mayonnaise” on the top tube keeps me grounded, keeps the ego from getting too heady. Have a great bike and have fun, just don’t be a PAB about it. Ben built it like the pro he is and I rode it everywhere. I took it through the Rocky Mountains where it climbed like a surefooted Mt. Goat and descended with the precision of a straight rule. Trail Ridge Road I’ll always remember. Climbed to 12,000 feet into winter and then descended as fast as fear would allow (51mph) back into summer again. Back in Chicago I went from being a nobody on the South Chicago Wheelmen to a challenger. I never won a Tuesday Criterium (5th place my best finish) but I influenced the outcome of the races and did my share of pulling the train. I love the feeling of being in a tight pack at 30mph almost as much as I love setting the pace and looking back and seeing 30 guys sucking my ass. I love riding at night so anticipation for the LATE ride was strong. Thousands of cyclists gather at Buckingham Fountain at 1:00 AM and ride through the city until dawn when they serve breakfast. It’s not a race but 20 or so of us wouldn’t accept that. We headed North on LSD which has been closed to cyclists only. I passed rider after rider in a fury because I had to be number one. Had a couple of challengers but all that climbing in Colorado made me hard to beat. I kept asking the cops stationed along the route “anyone ahead.” Pretty soon they were answering, “you’re the first.” A moment frozen in time: an empty Lake Shore Drive, no one ahead, no one behind as far as I can see; a quiet summer night without cars, moon bright and beautiful; me spinning silently breathing gaseous euphoria.
A fixed convert, Masi, Yojimbos, blah blah blah woof woof woof, you know the rest.
I pray on my bicycle. I observe my world and turn it into prayer. I say my prayers aloud. “God, the sun is warm today. I feel strong today. The geese fly with beauty today. I love the smell of the chocolate factory. I love the sound my bicycle makes. I love the feeling of drinking pure water, ice cold. Someone is cutting their grass and it smells nice. I’m getting along okay without you today, Dad. My legs make me feel sexy and strong. Hello Mister Squirrel, my dog Fergus would love to invite you over for dinner” Whatever I see I make into pleasing phrases. My prayer ends with gratitude. “Thank you for my life today. Thank you for my bike ride today. Thank you for my health. Thank you for beauty in the world. Thank you.”
On the Amazon a butterfly folds its wings. A sudden contraction of muscles along a left side posterior human appendage, creating force at 27 psi on a lever which pulls a tightly woven, Teflon encased metal cable transferring 23lbs of said force to a pivotal side pull Record braking device, bolted firmly to a minimally raked, chrome plated velocipede fork with a braking compound making sudden contact on aluminum alloy compound radial spoked device causing a sudden catastrophic *********** in forward momentum: a practical application of Faucault’s “Catapult Effect.” [spoken facsimile of Bill Kurtis] “consider Mr. Humphrey “Mayonnaise” Earwicker, catapulted forward through space in a fetal position, frozen momentarily in time, arches upward towards the heavens, pauses, turns downward and hurtles at 32 feet per second squared, same speed as a bowling ball less significant than the fall from grace, towards Newton’s apple.” Pneumo cased melon,driven through asphalt, gravel, soil, Michael Bolton records, bedrock, magma, emerges stock still, supine in Chinatown. Thud. “Mr. Mayonnaise, my name is Dr. Patel, can you hear me? You’re in the Emergency Room at Best Western Immunity Corpuscle. You’re in shock. You’ve taken a nasty fall, your teeth are tied in knots, you’ve got pig iron in your arrogance, and infectious Abe Vagoda corruption. We’re doing what we can but you keep aging. We can’t give you painkillers until we Czech 4 drain bamage. Your father will be here shortly to take you home.
It’s coffin cold in Chicago. I feel old and afraid. The world offers only dangers, sorrows and trauma. I haven’t been on the bike since my crash. They’re both out in the garage, haunting me with their intolerable silence. I drink myself to sleep and fall into nondescript gray dreams, slogging through invisibility. I wake too early in the morning with a poison headache. Music has no sound, wine no inspiration. Coffee no restoration. Without my bike I am nothing, and I am too afraid of death to mount. There’s blood on my shoes, blood on my Masi. If only I had a chance, an opportunity to avoid the crash, to out maneuver it, to have influence in the physical world, I wouldn’t feel so fragile. But I didn’t. My confidence spilled on the asphalt that day. I pass each day in gloom waiting for its return.