Shirts and Skins

I walked around in circles trying to focus on my breathing.  My friend skidded to a halt next to me and hesitantly asked, "Are you ok, man?"

I lifted my shirt from my right side gingerly to see the layer of freshly peeled skin grafted onto the fabric.  I was starting to bleed.


... I've been better.








Let me back up.



When I was in high school my family was living in Virginia.  Beautiful green countrysides, deep forests, the Appalachians not far off.  It is gorgeous there.  I had a friend who was terrifyingly active, always going paintballing or running or wrestling or cycling.  He was ever on the move, and it was exhausting and exhilarating to be around him.  I accepted an invitation to accompany him and another cycling enthusiast from our church congregation on a morning ride.

I only had a cheap little mountain bike that got me from A to B (A being home, B being school), but eager not to be deterred, I gave my all on that cool spring morning.  We took the ferry across the James River (only 2 miles from my home) and crossed over into a more secluded backwoods area with sparse traffic.  On the pavement out here was mapped out a path in colored spraypaint, guiding us in a wide loop out around old properties, farms, and estates from the days of Francis Bacon.

A twenty-five mile loop.

It was a cardio crucible for two hours, with frequent stops to let me in my thick-tired Wal-Mart bike catch up to the speed demons in their Tour de France two-wheelers.  I did not come prepared.  It was not graceful.  It was slow going, and I think my suffering struck a chord with my disgustingly active friend.

Not long after that grueling day he pulled up in his truck with a gift for me.  It was steel grey.  The tape wound around the handlebars was fraying at the ends.  It was obviously something pawned from a garage sale.  Beaten battered, scraped, scratched, but fully functional.

I loved that bike.  My Pee-wee Herman-like adoration for it was probably unhealthy in retrospect.

My buddy and I took to the loop more and more.  I started biking everywhere.  I would go on solo rides, and soon I was in possibly the best shape of my life - I could have killed a man with my quads.  I ran, I biked, I was one swimming pool pass away from triathlon training.  We did swim across the James River one morning, but that's another, smellier story.  We trained for weeks, people would cheer, "Go Lance!" as we sped past (this was before the doping scandal and at the peak of the yellow bracelet fad).  We were looking into variations on the loop, timing ourselves to maintain an average speed, racing down hills and huffing our way up steep slopes, training for an eventual double loop, fifty mile ride.  It was a blast.

Until...



My tires were flat and I couldn't afford to get it fixed before our next big ride.  Eager to still go, however, I asked another friend if I could borrow his bike just for that morning.  He graciously acquiesced and I picked up his metallic steed the night before.  I did so with some trepidation, however.  Unlike my speedy little grey ride, his was a shiny, brand new mountain bike.  Thick tires, slow pace, keeping up with my friend would be a nightmare.

Or would it?

I was in great shape after all, I'd been training and toning for weeks, waking up early, eating better, I was in my prime?  Was today the test?  My chance to prove how far I'd come since my embarrassing baptism by fire into this speedy subculture?

Could I keep up with a road bike on a mountain bike?

The morning started out as any other.  Mist and small wisps of fog danced across the verdant fields as I cruised down to the ferry to meet my friend.  The morning was still cool, but pockets of yellow sunshine we already beginning to evaporate the comfortable damp. We made smalltalk as the ferry crossed the river, feeling oddly out of place with our two bikes parked in with a handful of cars parked on the boat.  We started pedalling along at a brisk pace, now both used to the ups and downs of the trail.

About seven miles into our route we came across a gentle but long downward slope.  Gravity on our side, we began pedaling like mad men, building up speed until the truck driving near us had to put on the gas to regain its lead on us.  We were flying.

My friend eager whipped ahead of me.  I , not willing to be so easily subdued, buckled down to give chase.  I leaned forward.  I leaned forward - onto the brand new, highly sensitive shocks of my friend's brand new bike.

They kicked back.


I've never been good at wheelies.  I had friends who were big into X games and BMX events and they could pop a wheelie and maintain their slanted angle all the way down the street.  I just enjoyed speed rather than tricks.  But lo and behold, the shocks had bounced back with such vengeful and immediate repercussive force that my front tire was now spinning in the air.

I was so shocked that I didn't notice my handlebars (and therefore my renegade front wheel) turning askew.  As the front tire returned to the ground, I was now steering the bicycle at an angle from my original direction.

There was a brief moment when it all clicked and I realized there was no redemption from this sudden change in course.  I then surrendered my body to gravity, inertia, and a long stretch of asphalt.

They say that in moments of great crisis, everything slows down.  I disagree.

I didn't feel time slow.  I felt my brain speed up.  One small part of my brain was instantly analyzing my trajectory, where I would land, how far I would skid, the fact that thankfully no cars were coming up behind me to complicate my impending crash, what limbs would serve best to protect more vital body parts, angles, lines, physics, etc.  The rest of my brain was flashing something like this:

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Now kids, I'll take this opportunity now to say:  

WEAR A HELMET.

I had always kind of begrudgingly adorned cranial protection.  Until I saw the spiderweb of cracks that wrapped around the right half of my helmet after colliding with the ground three times as I skidded to a halt.  Helmets don't always look cool.  But they're a lot cooler than head injuries.




Back to the story.

Two seconds after I finally came to a halt, i was up on my feet walking in circles.  I didn't scream.  No tears.  Just frustrated grunts and focused breathing.  The bike that had so carelessly tossed me lay in a heap not far off.  No damage done to it, it was fine.

My buddy asked what seems now like a hilarious question.  "You okay, man?"

We had been going somewhere close to 25 mph downhill, probably more.  I had skidded a few feet before finally stopping.  The entire right side of my back was rubbed raw.  The inside of my shirt was freshly coated with a thick layer of skin.  My elbow and knee were bleeding.  My shoulder probably would have been bleeding but the heat caused by friction between skin and road had resealed most of the scrapes and gashes there.  No broken bones, thank goodness.  But, I believe the popular term is "road rash" covered almost half of my body.

Of all days to wear a sleeveless shirt.  It was supposed to get hot early that day.

And we were seven miles and a ferry ride from home.  I didn't need a hospital.  I needed a camera to document all the cool blood and scrapes, some ibuprofen, a way to cleanse the wounds that hadn't been resealed, some bandages, and a nap.  We called my friend's dad, but there was no point in just waiting, we'd probably beat him to the ferry.  So we took a much slower, methodical pace as we returned the way we came, back up the hill and back to the boat home.

The slightest breeze on my raw side made me wince, and pedaling with my bleeding knee kept me in a constant grimace all the way back.  But moving was better than just sitting and waiting.

Sure enough we made it to the ferry before my friend's dad could meet us.  We called him told him not to bother, we'd just head to my house near the port.  The adrenaline still surging in me, the sharp pain had dulled to a thick ache. I limped back and forth across the ferry; motion kept my mind busy and distracted from the pain.  We again took a leisurely pace for the last two miles to my house.

I dumped the traitorous borrowed bike in the front yard, stormed through the front door and boldly called to my brother, "Where's the camera?"



I took my pictures.  I got cleaned up.  My siblings thought it was cool.  My parents were shocked and worried when they got home.  It took weeks to fully heal, and I did a lot of uncomfortable sleeping on one side.  I got used to wearing baggy Hawaiian shirts to accommodate the bandages.  I never did get my tires fixed, and the little gray road bike was eventually sold before we moved.  My friend got his bike with the sensitive shocks back.  I never asked to borrow it again.



I don't think I'm meant to be an athlete.

I was getting into great shape, doing really well testing my limits and exerting my body's limitations.  Then I was badly injured.

Two years ago I was training for a marathon, making good time, running farther than I've ever run before for longer than ever before, stretching my endurance and building up my physical stamina.  I was in the 10k range,  getting close to the half marathon mark.  Then I got sick.  Really sick.  I was out of commission for a week until they finally figured out that my tonsils were beyond saving and needed to be removed.  I was put under, got those suckers out, had some ice cream; tonsillitis cured.  But after a week of illness and a week of percoset-induced sleep, I was in bad shape.  Homework had piled up, I didn't have time to run, and I never found the time to get back on that horse.

Anyone else see the pattern of cosmic humility here?  I seem to go through this every time I start to do well at something athletic

I'm trying to be more fit now.  And I'm understandably nervous.  I'll try running again.  I thought about swimming, but if I get too good  I'll probably get swimmer's ear or drown or develop a deadly chlorine allergy or something.




Any other would-be athletes out there?

How does life keep you down?  Or at least humble?





S