The Firefighters Got It Right, But The Reporter Didn't

Bike mishaps leave their riders in all sorts of predicaments.  Some, unfortunately, are tragic:  I have recounted a few on this blog. Others leave their riders in various states of incapacitation for varying periods of time.  The crash and "dooring" incident I suffered two years ago, within four months of each other, fall into that category:  Injuries and shock kept me off my bikes for a while.

Some predicaments are less dire--at least, if there is timely intervention.  So it was for a four-year-old boy in Madison, Wisconsin.  Firefighters found him with his foot entangled in spokes, which they cut.  The boy is fine but, of course, the bike wasn't rideable.  Kudos to the firefighters bought the necessary parts and fixed the kid's machine.

Now, you might have noticed something about the way I worded this post.  It has to do with the news account, which was obviously written by someone who isn't a cyclist.  The boy's foot was "caught in the spokes of one of his bicycle tires," according to the report.  After freeing the boy, the firefighters bought him " a new rim" and installed it.

I don't mean to nit-pick, but there is no such thing as the spokes of a bicycle tire.  The tire, usually made of some rubber compound, is the shoe, if you will, to the foot of a rim:  the round metal (or carbon fiber) part of a wheel that is attached to the hub (at the center of a wheel) by spokes.  The article got that right:  the spokes on that bike were, as they are on most bikes, wires.

The article noted, however, that the firefighters "bought a new rim" and "installed it for him."  Now, unless one of those firefighters is a wheelbuilder, he or she wouldn't have installed a rim:  It would have to be laced to the hub with spokes.  My guess is that the firefighters--bless their hearts--bought a whole wheel, with or without a tire, and installed it for him.  Most people, whatever their level of bike mechanic skills, can do that.

Anyway, I congratulate and thank the firefighters of Engine Company Number 10 in Madison, Wisconsin for what they did for that boy--whether or not a reporter got it right. 

Making Sure It Doesn't Get Worse

 After nearly half a century of cycling without a serious accident, last year I suffered through two mishaps--a crash and getting "doored"--that resulted in a two-night stay at a trauma center and a visit to an emergency room, respectively.  Oh, and the crash ended my journey with Arielle, my Mercian Audax (the first Mercian I acquired).  

I suppose things could have been worse, though:

From Teepublic

I mean, if I'd had a Strava (or any electronic measuring device), it would have shown an average speed of O.O5 mph or something by the time I got home.

No Saddle, But Plenty Of Seats

It's one thing to be forced off my bike.  It's another to be forced into this:

I know, I could have hailed a cab or Uber, or called a friend for a ride. But it seemed simpler to take the train, especially since it took me almost to the entrance of where I needed to be.

It had been at least eight months since I'd been on the subway.  I know that because I hadn't been on a train, or a bus, since at least a month before everything shut down and I started working from home.  Now that I think of it, I think my last subway trip, before yesterday, was in January, when I picked up a pair of wheels.  I've carried wheels on my bike before, but it's easier to take a train or bus.

I never imagined that while living in New York, I'd go for so long without using mass transit.  But we had a mild, dry winter before the pandemic struck, so I managed to ride to work every day.

It was almost surreal to be on the N train at the tail end of the morning rush hour and see empty seats everywhere.  And the MTA isn't even restricting the number of riders who can enter or blocking off seats:  There are just fewer people riding.

Still, I'd rather be on my bike.  I hope the more-optimistic prediction I got from the orthopedic doctor comes true!

Not Again! Is There A Conspiracy?

I don't believe in curses or conspiracy theories--most of the time.  All right:  When I read about "Vote for Trump or Else" e-mails some voters have received, I have to wonder whether the person/people who sent them saw the "endorsement" in my previous post.

After posting that "Demo-cats" video and doing a few other things, I went for a ride through southeastern Queens and Nassau county to the "Nautical Mile" of Freeport.  I was pedaling back along streets that zigzagged back and forth along the Nassau-Queens border when--bam!--I was knocked to the pavement of Lefferts Boulevard in Elmont.  

I'd just experienced one of cyclists' worst nightmares:  the driver of a parked car opened her door right into my side.  

I watch very carefully for such things, but there was no way to anticipate--or avoid--her action:  I was directly alongside the driver's side door when she opened up.

Instead of pedaling home to feed Marlee and myself, I was carted to Long Island Jewish Medical Center-Valley Stream.  Thirty stitches and three X-rays later, I was sent home.  

This year has been awful in all sorts of ways, from world and national events to personal crises, for almost everybody I know.  In half a century of cycling, I have had two accidents that resulted in my needing medical attention.  I suffered both of them this year, only four months apart.

The doctor said I could be off my bike for anywhere from four to ten weeks, as the gashes were deep and the tissue will take time to recover. (Some of the stitches I needed were internal.)  Although my lower back, knee and shoulder hurt (and still hurt), the X-rays revealed no fractures or spinal damage.   She said I should recover "just fine," but it will "take time."  But she expressed confidence:  "You're tough. And you look great for your age."  The attending nurses agreed.

If I have to wait two and a half months to ride again, that means the rest of this year is gone.  But, if I my recovery goes more quickly, I might be able to salvage some late-fall riding.  

Now, I know logically that the timing of my accident has nothing to do with my endorsement of Donald Trump's opponent.  Or does it?

A Mishap And A Mining Museum

After all of those wonderful experiences I had on Friday (which I described in my previous two posts), the night ended, not in tragedy, but in a way not befitting of the goddesses.

After returning to the hotel, I dozed off for a bit.  When I woke, I was hungry.  It was past ten, and my mind told me not to eat at such a late hour.  But I ignored my mind and walked down to the waterfront.  I bought a soulvaki from Yanko's, where everything is fresh and cheap, and a small salad with olives goat milk cheese from Gregory's, a place next door, and took them down to a park by the water.

After reveling in the tastes of that moment, and the other sensations I experienced during the day, I started my walk back to the hotel.  The apartment in which I stayed the previous night was now occupied by a couple on their honeymoon so, as Irini said, I was moved to another room.  While not as spacious, I hardly felt cramped:  It's bigger than apartments in which I've lived, and had a balcony of its own.

But the doorstep stood a few inches above the ground, with a "step" carved of stone in between.  I wasn't looking for it:  I entered as if the doorstep were level with the ground.

I let out a howl not usually heard in Milos.

My left foot struck that "step" and pushed my big toenail back 45 degrees, pulling away the skin.  One of the hotel staff members ran up to me and, seeing the blood spurting from my toe, called Irini, the owner, who drove me--up the winding road I pedaled earlier in the day--to the tiny hospital in Plaka.  

There a medic splintered and bandaged my toe.  He didn't remove the nail; instead, he told me to go to a doctor in Athens, where I was headed Saturday, the following evening.  And he prescribed an antibiotic.  

Irini stayed with me the whole time and, the next morning, went down to the port, where my prescription was filled in a pharmacy.  When I went to the courtyard for breakfast, she gave me the pills.

I have to admit, I was tempted to change my plans and stay in Milos.  But I had a boat ticket to Athens (Piraeus),  where I am as I write this,  for Saturday night  and another ticket back to New York for Tuesday morning.

So I went to a place I never imagined I'd go:  a mining museum.  (Last year, I went to the Landmine Museum in Cambodia. I never thought I'd go to a place like that, either.) Turns out, Milos and other Cycladic islands are rich sources of minerals. Why do you think such beautiful pottery and jewelry were made there?  Even today, a few minerals are extracted for use in everything from paper to cement.  The exhibits also include films in which old miners were interviewed.  

What I found really interesting--and encouraging--is that the museum makes a real attempt to show that women did at least their share of the work.  Many worked as sorters and packers, but some actually worked the mines.  I have a hard time, though, imagining how one would carry so much equipment and bear the heat of those mines in an outfit like this:

Oh, Irini took me to the museum and back to the hotel for lunch--and to the ferry.  With hospitality like that, I'm going back to a place where an orange guy tells the world there's no room left in his country?

To The Point: Recovery

Today I took my first ride of more than 35 km since the accident two weeks ago.

I could hardly have had a better day:  Scarcely a cloud interrupted the blue sky just as barely a whitecap broke the nearly calm sea.  Best of all, on a long straight stretch, I was pedaling into a 15-20 KPH wind that blew me almost home.

You might’ve guessed that I pedaled out to Point Lookout—on Arielle, my Mercian Audax.  Even with her sprightliness, I expected to slog through part of this ride as it would be, by far, the longest I’d taken since the accident.

But I should have known better, given that I was riding in such favorable conditions on a familiar ride and the bike on which I feel I have the most elan. Much to my surprise—and delight—I pedaled the 105 or so km in half an hour less than I took any other time I’ve done the ride this year.

Best of all, at the end of the ride, I wasn’t in any pain, even where I’d been bruised or on the spot under my rib cage where I felt a stab of pain, then days of throbbing, after the accident.

The forecast for tomorrow calls for somewhat warmer and more humid weather than we had today.  I think I’m ready for another invigorating ride.

Why Did This Cat Cross The Road?

Marley is curled in my lap.  So, I feel almost guilty in writing this.

The other day, the breeze into which I’d pedaled to Point Lookout lapped against my back for my ride home.  Hardly a cloud besmudged the clear, bright sky that would soon blaze with the sunset.  Even the splintered, blistered houses that had weathered the harshest winter in decades just a year after Superstorm Sandy tore at them floated through my vision like images from a dream.

From a patch of cement and shrubs in front of one of those houses, a big black cat darted into my path.  If you are a cyclist, you have had hundreds, if not thousands, of such encounters with felines.  And, to the extent that I thought about it, I expected this one to be simply another.

If you are a cyclist, you also know that cats almost invariably run as close as they can to your front wheel, then cut at a sharp angle away from it. 

Note that I used the word “almost”.  The black cat (You can’t make this up!) wasn’t one of the invariables.  He/she actually ran straight into my front wheel, and glanced off it. 

My front wheel made a U-turn to my right.  The rest of the bike, and I, didn’t follow:  It stuttered and teetered on the pavement. I flung my left leg out.  But it did not stop me from tumbling into the back of a parked car.

The sky hadn’t yet grown dark, but I saw stars.  A gust of steel lashed against my side.  And the leg that couldn’t break my fall flung to the side and left my right calf to take a blow against the car’s bumper.

“Are you OK?  Are you OK?”  A young Caribbean-Indian woman ran toward me.  “Are you hurt?”  I couldn’t talk; I could just barely inhale without feeling a stab under my rib cage.  She pulled my water bottle out of its cage on my bike.  “Here, take a drink.”  I sucked at the nozzle; after I swallowed, my next breath came easier.  “How do you feel?”

“OK, I think.”

“Just take it easy.”

She crouched beside me while a man—her boyfriend or husband, I guessed—watched from a nearby porch.  He held a cell phone.  “Is she all right?” he yelled.

The woman and I both nodded.

“Where did the cat go?” I wondered.  “Does it belong to anybody here?”

“I don’t know”.

I think she saw my frustration.  “I hope it’s OK.”  I meant that, even though a part of me was damning it.  “Don’t worry about it,” she commanded.  “Can you get home all right.”

“Yeah, I think so.  Thanks.”

The bruises are just starting to appear.  But I’ve felt the pain, just under my rib cage, every time I’ve bent over to pick up something or feed my cats.  Hopefully, it’ll fade:  I want to ride, and I don’t want Marley or Max to go hungry!  At least, they’ll never run into my wheel.

A Fallen Woman (On Her Bike)

Had a bit of a mishap yesterday.  On my way to work, a driver pulled out of a parking lot and into the street, about twenty feet in front of me.  I made a panic stop. Fortunately, the driver and I didn't collide.  However, I took a tumble.  


Except for a bent Jitensha handlebar, the bike incurred no damage.  However, my left knee hit the pavement.  So, it's swollen and bruised, and I feel pain when I bend it.  I feel it when I bend to sit down, but not once I sit down. However, it's painful to cross my legs.


I've been to the doctor.  He said, "It feels worse than it actually is."  That's good to know.  A few days of staying off it as much as possible should heal it, he says.  


So, if we get the snow, sleet, hail, slush and everything else the meteorolgists have forecast for this weekend, I won't mind, really.  I'll read, write, play with Max and do some cooking.  Maybe I'll make some soup: I haven't done that yet this "winter."


Oh well.  If I get some miles in before the season starts, at least I can be in something like reasonable shape.  Meantime, I'll keep on posting!