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Hello, My name's Elvis and i have a problem. A big problem. Riding is what I do.
This thought was going through my head when I crashed and dislocated my shoulder in June of 2004.
It was going through my head in January of 2005 as the doctor in the room outside the operating theater injected some wow-juice into my arm to make me sleepy. My last thought was, When will I ride again?
They had done an MRI and found a tear in the cartilidge of the shoulder. No bigee, but it could be fixed. If they operated. Only, an operation would put me out of action for a few weeks, maybe more.
If it was your arm and you planned to keep riding, I asked the doctor, would you operate? Absolutely, he said. Without fixing it it could get worse over time. Already it clicked, and was not as strong as it used to be.
I decided to do it that winter. If I missed some riding, at least it'd be the cold days I missed, not the nice sunny road cruises.
But after a week of having my arm in a sling, I couldn't take it any more.
I broke out my Lemond -- a 3 year old but in beautifull shape road bike, and began to set it up. Cateye speedometre, an old pair of SPD clipless pedals, a pouch under the seat with a padlock. A water bottle cage.
It was time to ride, my first real ride in a while. My first ride back.
I was not supposed to be doing this. The Doctor had warned me, don't even go for physical therapy until about a month had passed. But I was going insane.
The road was calling. I clipped in and accepted the charges.
It was a brisk 34 degrees as I lit out, around the block, then out onto the main drag of town, oddly clear of snow -- this was the first real cold spell we'd had recently. The 700x25c tires pulled more pavement than I expected. I eased my way up the hill, then past an intersection and a MacDonalds. Remember that poem by Robert Frost where he came to the fork in the road? That's what I do every time I ride. But this time it was like leanring all over again. I knew the way to ride, I had the ability, but the feeling of riding, the sensation of flying, was fresh and new after nearly two weeks off the bike, give or take a few days. I felt like a kid.
Cars pulling in the drive thru slowed. I got the feeling the drivers thought I was a show-off because I was riding with one hand. The truth was, my left shoulder still hurt a little -- sometimes a lot. But I had to ride. I didn't feel it then... I gingerly put my left hand on the handlebar, careful not to put weight on it, just steadying the bike a little. The nerds will tell you its endorphins, say its chemical highs generated by some science reaction in the muscles or burning energy or whatever.
I wasn't going fast enough to get high off endorphins, and still, I don't care what they call it. I know what it was. It was love. The love of an activity, of a moment, of the cold wind on my stubbled chin, of the sun peeking through an overcast sky as I headed up a huge hill on a road so steep i dropped the 'Vada down to the granny gear of the tiple, but made it up, then down Mountain Ave past the wide-open acerage of the Bell Labs complex.
Cars whizzed past, hurrying on their way, people whose watches had a date with the gas station, or the Home Depot, or Kmart. I had no where to be, except in that one moment. And nowhere to go, for I carried the momnent along with me as I rode, time trapped in spinning 700c alloy rims and rubber tires, the worry of the coming workweek suspended in existence, held back by a pair of turning polished aluminum cranks, and a pair of feet -- my feet -- moving ahead, in that one moment.
This mornign I took my second ride, and somehow found myself three counties over. On my way bike I stopped for java. Waiting in line at the Dunkin Donuts for a cup of blakc coffee, some lady had two kids. On observed my helmet, in that curious way children do. "Why are you riding your bike and not a car?" the kid asked. I smiled. "Well, I could ride a car. But this is more fun." He nodded. "I like riding my bike," he said. "Keep at it," I advised. "It'll still be fun when you're my age." Nromally kids bother me, but right then I felt like ...who knows? Maybe when he grows up and gets his first car, he'll remeber my words and not throw his bike away? Maybe the nation won't lose another potential cyclist because I stopped for coffee? I know, I'm an idealist. But what the hell can I do, Mr. Frost?
Tomorrow I go in to get the stitches out, then who knows how long it'll be til I can go for a long, full ride. But it better be soon.
Riding has nearly gotten me killed a few times. It ended up with surgery this last time. But yet, paradoxically, the same riding that nearly got me killed, also taught me how to live. In a nation where millions of people ride down the driveway in a car to check their mail, riding a bike for fun in January is definately the road less traveled.
But Mr. Frost was right: it is worth every mile.
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