Face? Meet pavement. (Or how I know I'm not Lance Armstrong)

Steph Matulich — Sun, 07 Sep 2008 23:00:26 -0500

I’m sitting here with a largish bruise on my left shoulder and several scrapes and cuts along my legs because I fell on my bike today. I would say that I fell off my bike but that wouldn’t necessarily be true because when I went over I was still very much seated on my bike. Or at least I had my feet firmly clipped onto the pedals of my bike because when the light turned red and I was suddenly required to stop? I experienced several moments of utter retardedness during which I failed to remember how, exactly, to detach myself from my two-wheeled contraption of death.

Luckily for me there were at least a dozen cars waiting at the same light when I came along and gave them a story they’d be telling all night.

I was fairly non-descript at first: just another sasquatch out for an evening ride. Then the light turned red. And I couldn’t get my foot un-clipped. And then I still couldn’t get my foot un-clipped. And after several more seconds? I still couldn’t get my foot un-clipped. I’m sure my expression probably morphed into one of WTF?!?! as I reached the crosswalk, stopped, wobbled, pinwheeled my arms into empty air, and then tipped over onto the pavement.

Several cars honked as I lay there staring at the sky and thinking nasty thoughts about Lance Armstrong and Greg LeMond who, I’d be willing to bet, never endured the applause of four teenage boys in a Honda Civic after smashing themselves flat.

Then I thought that it was a pity that I was the one to fall because I’m sure it was a magnificent sight that I would have enjoyed thoroughly had I been watching and the subject of the falling not been myself.

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Face? Meet pavement. (Or how I know I'm not Lance Armstrong)