When we last left our hero, the vehicle roaring up behind me turned out to be a tractor. The farmer came to a stop beside me. Not bothering to dismount or turn off the engine, he leaned over and spat a wad of tobacco chew onto the road in order to make room in his mouth to ask his one-word question, “Problems?” My speech muted for lack of breath, I shook my head, so he put the tractor in gear and eased on down the road. No inquiry of possible injury. No offer to help or to call anyone. I’m sure he thought this damn-fool bicyclist could sort this out.
I was thrilled to be able to wiggle my toes and rotate my ankles. When I gently bounced my thighs and calves, hope sprung into my heart. I did not try to get up until the farmer turned into a field. If I was unable to walk, I did not want him to witness any more of my humiliation. I took a deep breath and rolled onto my knees, then slowly eased my way into a standing position. Being vertical was a success but taking those first few steps was a true victory. I gathered up the seat and the bike: the bolt that ran through the seat attaching to the metal rod had indeed snapped. So much for the claim of strength and durability of titanium metal. However, this catastrophe would have been averted had I had my hands on the handlebars. But no, I had to be the hot dog.
“Where have you been?” Kay asked when I stumbled into the house. “We needed to leave for Whitland Avenue.” When I explained my delay, she gave me a skeptic’s squint, so I dropped my pants and bent over. And low, a great moon rose before her, and what to her wondering eyes should appear but the skid marks of tire tracks running through the center of my buttocks and the bright red abrasions on each cheek from bouncing along on the road like a skipping stone. Her reaction was a stuck record of “Oh my. Oh my. Oh my.”
Pants down, I noticed my underwear looked as if it had been put through a shredder, but the material of my bike pants was completely unscathed. Oh, the miracle of synthetic fibers. My one hundred percent cotton whitie-tighties never had a chance. “Spandex, I’m available as your on-camera spokesman.”
I continued to ride for several more years. You fall off a horse, even a two-wheeled, mechanical one, you get back on. But for weeks afterwards, when riding by the location of my ill-fated accident, the sphincter muscles would tighten, my legs would flinch, but my hands remained firmly on the handlebars. Yes, he can be taught.
Of course, this incident has provided my dear wife the opportunity for me tell the tale over and over to new audiences. Whenever two or three are gathered together, I get the playful elbow to my ribs, and the “Tell the time when your bicycle seat broke.” Before I can finish setting up the story, she is laughing at my painful comedy…low comedy.
