I piled up 96 miles last weekend and got a new nickname.
We’re rolling up an incline at about 12 mph on a shady back road somewhere outside Lloyd Harbor on Saturday afternoon, when Kenny the ride leader calls out, “Check out the driveway coming up on the left – this guy always has a pair of white Rolls-Royces parked outside.”
So I look, take my eyes off the road, bump tires with Kenny, and bam, I’m laying in the road, right foot still clipped into the pedal.
I get up with a little help and start assessing the road rash forming on my shoulder, hand, elbow and leg. (Tip: Always pack bandages and disinfectant.) My jersey’s ripped and my right brake hood is a little out of whack.
And then I realize: I landed almost directly on the hip I broke in December 2007. And I’m standing up. I’m a bit dazed, but my leg’s OK.
I manage to hang with the pack for the last 20-plus miles and when we get back to the parking lot Kenny’s giving me a new nickname: Rolls.
Sunday’s ride was flatter and faster – too fast to dwell on Saturday’s dopey mistake or to admire any roadside attractions.
This better be my last crash for a while; and oh, please let me land on my left side next time.