Most of you know that I have been training for many months for the NYC Tri, an event that I did last year and, stupidly, decided I NEED to do it again. For reasons unknown, I somehow enjoyed swimming in the Hudson, biking to the Bronx and back, and then forcing my legs to run 6.2 miles through the hilliest leg of Central Park. Maybe I'm just a born masochist. Maybe I'm just retarded.
Either way, Steve G and I decided to do a 30-ish mile bike ride to the Carnarsie Pier last Friday, for something new and different. I mean, you can only go around Prospect Park a few million times in your life before you start to want to put a pebble in your eye..so Canarsie Pier, via Ocean Parkway and Sheepshead Bay, here we come!
Steve has been training as well, and kicks my ass every single fucking time we go on a ride. And every single fucking time I say to myself "I am SO keeping up with Steve today." And every single fucking time he's about a mile ahead of me and I'm cursing and sweating and trying to decide if the tiny speck size person way up ahead might possibly be him, or did I miss a turn somewhere?
Off Ocean Parkway we turned onto Neptune Ave, which took us to the bike path alongside the Belt Parkway. This path rides parallel to a beach, and is a tad bit sandy. Just thought you fellow cyclists might want to know that, because I found out too late, was going too fast, and went SKIDDING through the sand, lost my balance, couldn't unclip my foot from my pedal, and went DOWN like a dead soldier. Bike completely on top of me.
Holy crap. I thought I had broken my leg. I just sort of sat there, stunned. My knee was dripping with blood. My ass hurt. My leg from shin to ankle was turning a fiery red and I was scared to look and see if there was broken bone protruding from it.
Old Russian man sees me go down...but instead of rushing to my aid, he just sort of ambles over slowly, surmises the situation, and says "You need to be more careful."
No shit Sherlock!
Then the crying began. Old Russin man had no sympathy for me. "You need me, you give me call," he yelled after me as he slowly started to walk away. Thanks, you're a huge help.
I texted Steve two words- "Wipeout" and hoped he would finally realize that I wasn't behind him anymore. A cyclist flew by, and kindly asked if I needed 911. I told him my friend was somewhere on the path and that he would find me eventually. I guess Nice Cyclist found Steve for me and sent him back to get me. Thank GOD.
Steve and I tried to clean me up as best we could with my bottle of water. To which a passerby told me I needed to have Steve piss on me. "Piss. It's the only way. Piss will clean out your wounds." I wasn't sure that I wanted to go down that road, I mean Steve I love you and all, but I'm not ready for watersports, Hon...
So we refrained from having him piss on me, and proceeded with the ride after cleaning me up. I'm glad to report that I am not broken, but I hurt ALL OVER.
I will say that in a sick way, I was a little proud of my injuries, showing them to anyone who was interested, using them for sympathy, using them to get laid, you know, all the usual stuff. Thank God I have a blog, because now, dear readers, I can inflict my disgusting injuries on you. Check 'em out and be jealous. You know you want some too.