Last summer’s accident is too raw; my knee still sports the bright, new scars. Oh, they’ll fade eventually, I’m sure, just like my sense of balance and muscle tone. I need both for a safe, invigorating ride, but the greater concern is my judgment. It’s sorely lacking, and is the direct cause of nearly all my injuries. A lifetime of them.
Get this. I have a bruise on my upper arm from ricocheting into a door frame when I ran to answer the phone. A flipping year ago. The color is muted, but plainly visible. I assume it’s now a permanent feature, along with the wrinkles and liver spots. Well, fine, vanity is a young woman’s worry, recovery time is the real issue here. And a year seems unreasonable.
Who has that kind of time? Crutches and all the rest — slings, tourniquets, casts, unconsciousness — are a huge, cumbersome inconvenience and I don’t relish the hassle. I love riding my bike, I do, but I like walking without stumping along on sticks as well. Much easier, trust me.
So my bike waits patiently to go outside, like a well-trained house pet. It leans against the wall, quiet and uncomplaining, but yearns to be let loose on streets lined with budding trees and freshly green lawns. Me, too, but oy. Fortunately, the tires need air, they’re too squishy to ride on after the long winter. And I can’t decide if that’s an omen or gravity — probably a little of both.
In the end, I’ll succumb to the temptation, I know I will. A glorious, sunny morning with a soft breeze and the smell of new-mown grass will come along and I’ll be overcome, unable to resist the lure of pedaling into springtime and oncoming traffic. Sure, the thought of spending summer in a hospital is powerfully unappealing, but it won’t stop me. No, I’m not that practical. Or cautious. Or sensible. What I am is Hell on wheels. Yehaa.