I've seen all good people

I wouldn't be a real cyclist if I didn't have at least one mishap per year, would I? I remember many years ago I lived not so far from a patch of wasteland that perhaps 150 years before had been the wilds leading to a quarry; flat for the most part and bounded by the natural rolling slopes of the area, while the quarry itself was not of rock but of sand and soil, for ground level was in fact the top of those rolling slopes: moraine left behind from the last glacier. We would take our bicycles on adventures to this made-for-stunts place: a network of humps, bumps and trees that would've made Danny MacAskill have kittens; and it was a place of names handed down from generation to awed generation: The Devil's Elbow, the Velodrome, Route 66, Strawberry Hill, River Rapids, the Juke Box ... and I'm sure there are another couple I can't remember now. 'Can you do Devil's Elbow?' we'd be asked, and skilled and wise beyond our years, we'd demonstrate to the younger ones. Of course, tales abounded of horrible crashes involving trees and handlebars; I remember watching a friend leaving his bike mid-descent from ill-placed tree roots, and I certainly remember seeing two instances of falls ending in mild concussion. I'm sure blood was spilled at least once, too.

Despite this superbly tomboyish lifestyle, somehow I escaped my childhood with no broken arms, legs or wrists. I remember a succession of painful pedal-shin interactions (at least, until the advent of mountain bikes and toeclips), some grazed hips and elbows from one too many skids, and the occasional bent pair of forks. Indeed, my left shin still wears a ten inch-long line of little dents left behind by a genuine old school Wellgo BMX pedal, the aluminium slanty ones with eight horrible spiky studs for extra grip.

And then it all went quiet: they cut down all the trees growing in the quarry, built a load of houses there and on our playground, and a generation of children was immediately deprived of somewhere to go to prod frog spawn, to go wading when everything flooded, to build jump ramps from bricks and random pieces of wood, and learn how to fall off a bike without getting too bashed up. Growing up these days must be no fun at all.

As one's skills in bike handling improve over time, assuming one rides frequently, the number of bumps should decrease. The same goes whether one rides offroad through the hills to take photographs for Flickr groups, offroad on downhill courses where people use ten inch wide tyres and pepper sentences with words like gnarly and sick (I'm presuming, of course, that rad is as passé these days as purple anodising), or in the cut and thrust of rush hour traffic. I've had a few moments in my time, I have to admit. I rode down a short but steep slope in my wasteland days and went over my handlebars, across the pavement and into the side of a van. While riding home from university one day I lost my front wheel on a slippery piece of tarmac, which set my confidence levels for steering back at least ten years. More recently while piloting my Speedmachine recumbent in the early frost of a winter, my front wheel skidded sideways, then gripped again as my back wheel skidded out. I was flung to the ground in an instant and left with a series of bruises. A motorist T-boned me on a roundabout whilst I was riding home once, after which I was hurting in about ten different places. And although it's technically outside the scope of this blog, a year ago I did finally break some bones. There's a bit of a pattern here I think, or possibly two: older people break easier and hurt more; and the more road riding I do, the more accidents I seem to have.

Last time I wrote it had been snowing for four or five days; the snow is now melting rapidly in the sweltering 3ºC heat of yesterday and today, although they think another flurry is due. My local bike shop's sale came along after New Year as I expected, but my plan to buy some big knobbly tyres didn't work, what with prevailing trends for low-rise knobbles (for which read 'worn out looking'), and I ended up buying spiky tyres at full price. If I'd done more research I might've discovered the Schwalbe CX Pro, a chunky but narrow tyre for cutting through the snow in the same vein as the venerable Panaracer Smoke Lite; but I needed tyres urgently because I didn't trust the ones I had, so I bought a pair of Panaracer Fire XC Pros. Initial impressions were good: traction aplenty and steering was remarkably precise considering the churned up snow and slush I was riding through. I managed to last without an accident until about four days ago, with the irony that it was nothing to do with snow and ice at all.

In fact, it wasn't that much of an accident really, except that afterwards I worried for two days straight that I'd broken my shoulder again. With the assistance of a thousand kilograms of car, in one of those combination moves that elude memory, I found myself flying slowly through the air and over my handlebars, heading for the gutter. I landed on my hand and shoulder, possibly with my fall broken by my rucksack and the snow on the ground. I remember my bike flying slowly through the air and about to land on top of me as I attempted to deflect it, and I remember tucking my head down as I rolled onto my back. Some small presence of mind prevailed, as I lay still for a moment to check vital systems like arms and legs, and as I picked myself up I was annoyed that I might have ripped my good cycling jacket. My shin hurt, I noticed, and for a moment I took in the line of cars waiting behind and thought to myself, 'I'm afraid you'll just have to wait', while I realised that they were now spectators.

The driver of the car hurried out to my side, apologising. I wish I'd had a little more restraint, to be honest, as I gave her a piece of my mind about road vehicle behaviour. I would have quoted Highway Code rules too if I actually knew them by rote. I pointed a lot, shouted a bit, or at least to the extent that my too-cold mouth would let me in minus several degrees Celcius. Then she actually offered to drive me home, and to get me checked out. I was so surprised that I nearly agreed, before deciding that although I only hurt in one place and was likely to hurt in several more later on, nothing was broken and therefore I could probably ride home. In the event, perhaps I should have gone to get checked out, if only because I didn't know if my shoulder was now weaker or stronger than it was originally. I was still intent on brushing off the slush from my jacket, and I hauled my bike onto the pavement to give it a quick once-over. Spin the wheels, try the brakes, a quick fingertip examination of the frame joints and headtube. My bike seemed to have survived. It was only a little somersault, remember, and mountain bikes were made for being bumped about. In the information overload of the moment, my speed of thought had slowed down and I clung to my mantra of 'Get details'. My arms and legs all worked and I thought some more, brushed my jacket again and I remembered how much I'd been enjoying being out on my bike up until then. I decided that it was probably worth the risk and that details would only complicate the day. While I was still a bit shocked from the spill, it was obvious that I was handling it the better, as great big tears welled up from her eyes and she wobbled in the realisation of what had happened in only a few seconds. What did I do? I put my arms around her and gave her a big long hug.

Presently she climbed back into her car to resume her journey, while I readied myself for the remaining ride home. No-one had come to our aid, and I was sore, but I left the scene hoping that some sense of forgiveness had been shown and that anyone else watching might have taken heart.