Swizzle Crashes......Again

Ouch.....A new boo boo on my hip--very sensitive.

Okay, Okay. Umm. Yea. So, you may have heard, I crashed the bike not too long ago. No big deal. It happens to all of us. Nope. It wasn't anyones fault. Nope, there was no greater meaning in it. Nope there were no "Now it all makes sense" epiphanies, no Oprah-esque "Ah-haaaas." I was just lost in thought, my hands slipped off the ol' handlebars, and I went down. Road rash on the usual body parts and my pride may have been bruised a bit, but otherwise, none-the-worse-for-wear.

 A new boo boo over the week-old boo boo.

But then, about a week later. I crashed again. Same deal. Nobodies fault. Nobody even around. Sunny. Warm. Looking forward to good stuff on the horizon and then WHAM. Down. Hard. But this time, it wasn't even a mystery pebble in the road causing the crash. One minute, I'm settling into some cherished miles through the pastoral New England countryside, the next, I'm out of control like some frizzy-dizzy person on a bike. I literally rode smack-dab into the curb on the side of the road. Bang. Front wheel hits the curb, forward progress of the bike stops while the forward progress of the rider is instantly converted into---"Falling force?" "Flailing force?" "Crashing speed"?--- I wonder what the physics propeller heads would call it? Ahhhh, it doesn't matter.

For no apparent reason, on a sunny, warm day in late November, one week after I crashed for no apparent reason, I crashed again, for no apparent reason. I was just as surprised as I was the week before. "What's happening?" I thought to myself as I felt the jarring impact of my front wheel hitting the curb at speed. "Are you kidding me?" I thought. Now, who I thought could have been kidding me remains to be seen. But I was going a good bit faster than I was prior to my previous crash, so the time I had to think deep thoughts to myself prior to making impact with the tarmac was shorter, but, since my velocity was greater, I had lots more time to think deep thoughts after I made contact with the tarmac and before abrasive slide across the road came to a stop.

My deep thoughts included: "Wow, my helmet is pushing all these leaves into a big pile as I slide down this sidewalk." and "I'm not sure I can breathe too good right now." (I guess my mid-crash thoughts do not worry about grammar and correct usage), and "Why is there a curb right there?" The slide was long enough to also allow for such musing as: "I can't believe this is happening again." and "Arrrrrrgggggggg." as well.

Nobody saw this one. There were no cars on the road. No old ladies on the front porch. No "cyclists" (air-quotes). No preppies driving Mercedes station wagons with "Dartmouth College" window stickers on the back window. Just me and the leaves that I'd just piled up with my head by the side of the road in Lincoln. And this one hurt just a little bit more than the last one. The clothes covering all the usual places--hand, elbow, knee, foot--had fresh rips, and the flesh did too. But unlike the previous crash, I'd hit my head on this one, and had the cracked helmet to show for it.

Good thing I've been wearing my helmet since my days of crashing and bike commuting in Boston. And I had a decision to make. The week before, I'd crashed at the literal apex of my 36-miler so there were no decisions to make. I simply had to ride the remaining 18-miles to make my way home. But this crash happened at the beginning of my ride. I was only about 5 miles from home at this point. Should I gather my facilities and just limp home from here or should I solider on?


I did all the stuff you do when you collect yourself after a crash, and then I kept going. I knew I'd need to get a new helmet. I knew I had some fresh road rash. But nothing felt too bad and I knew I had to keep going. Not for some tough-guy reason, I just needed to keep going. And I did.


And I felt the same way about this crash as I did about the one a week prior, but the second crash in a week was a wake-up call. There is a lesson here. And I'm amazed that after all these years of "recovery" and "healing" and "blah, blah, blah," maybe one of the most important lessons that I've needed to learn has come about because I wear tight pants and crash my bike for seemingly no reason at all. I think I finally get it. Finally. Maybe. And it's not new. And it's not an original idea. And people have been telling me for years. And sages have been preaching if through the ages. It's so simple.

Be In The Moment. We all gotta be in the moment.

Now, I've been using the bike to work through some pretty heavy stuff these last months. And I'm so glad I've had it. But I've always had it. I've literally been riding a bike since I was 6 years old, and I never stopped. All the yelling, and screaming, and feeling, and crying on the bike has been such a gift and I know all that stuff has been way necessary, but maybe all that stuff really comes down to Being in the Moment. Really being in the moment. Not 5 minuets in the future, or 25 years in the past but Right. In. The. Right. NOW. I think I just need to ride the bike when I ride the bike. Be in the moment on the bike. If I was paying attention to what was going on on the bike, rather than to what was going on in my delusional, magical, making-something-out-of-thin-air mind, I may not crash as much, and who knows, maybe even glimpse the divine that's happening all around us. All the time.  Maybe.

Right at this moment, as I type these words on my 6-year-old laptop, and my scabby arms are cooled by the honed black granite counter top in our wonderfully lived-in kitchen, and the sun sets red through the trees to the west, and my beautiful wife laughs upstairs, everything is perfect. And I've missed those simple awarnesses and gratitudes so long. I feel like I'm waking up out of a very long and hazy dream. I feel....like I'm waking up.

Or maybe I just hit my head a little too hard. And, ummm, oh yea, it really hurts when I breath, or laugh, and oh man, sneezing delivers a spike of pain that I've never really felt before. I do believe I did do something to my ribs. "I can't breathe too good."

But I can see.