"Wear A Bloody Helmet!"

Tomorrow will mark a decade since a black cat (really!) ran into my front wheel, glanced off it and darted away.

While that encounter resulted in some bruises and fatigue that kept me from riding for a couple of days, neither I nor my bike was seriously damaged.

Christian Reeves

Christian Reeves wasn't so lucky. As he pedaled to work on 30 July, two cats fought in an alleyway.  That confrontation was captured on CCTV before Reeves rounded a corner and, apparently, scared them.  They darted into his path:  one under his front tire, the other under the rear.  The impact launched him off his bike and onto the pavement--headfirst.  He suffered a severe brain injury.  In spite of an operation and having "fought a very hard battle," according to his son Dominic, the 52-year-old Rugby (UK) resident passed away on 5 August.

As valiant as his battle to stay alive, and as skilled as the surgeons, may have been, Dominic says one thing could have ensured that his father would still be with him today.  So he is imploring cyclists to do what his Dad didn't:  "Wear a bloody helmet!"

   

An Unexpected Stop On Mu My Ride

Every day except one (Monday) during the past week we’ve had daytime high temperatures in the mid-90s (around 35C). And our days have been, ahem, graced with our (in)famous East Coast humidity.

So I have been taking early morning rides, mainly to and near bodies of water, and getting back to my apartment or the Garden before the midday heat.

Today didn’t exactly go according to plan, but I’m not complaining. I started riding later than I intended, but an unexpected encounter added a couple of hours to my ride.

I had just done a “loop” around Randall’s Island and crossed the Connector (which runs under the viaduct for the Amtrak and Metro North trains) back into the Bronx. While pedaling along the Willow Avenue lane to 138th Street, I saw three people—a young man and woman and someone who looked about 15 or 20 years older—gathered around someone who sat leaning against a railing. As I approached, I also saw a bicycle—specifically a red and black BMC road bike. 

As I got even closer, I saw blood streaked on his face. He lifted a towel to reveal its source:  a gash on his head.

He’d struck something in the path, he said, and held out his arm as he fell. It hurt, he said, but he could still move it, so he didn’t think it was broken. We were more worried about his head.

The young woman—his sister —had already called an ambulance. The older woman, his mother, talked to him (in Spanish) and rubbed him. The other young man, his brother, had brought a bottle of water and the towel. Turns out, they live only a couple of blocks away and could come quickly when he called. 

I couldn’t see what else, exactly, I could do. I offered my help nonetheless. Truth was, I didn’t want to leave the young man or his family until they got the help they needed: Having been in a couple of crashes myself, I was empathizing, if nothing else.

I made another call for an ambulance. Part of me thought simply that multiple calls would hasten its arrival; the cynic in me thought we might get a quicker response if the operator heard a Caucasian-sounding voice speaking English without a foreign accent.

I think the sister articulated one of the reasons why we waited so long—more than an hour. “Hay mucha gente mayor aqui”—there are many old people in the neighborhood. And the day’s heat was no doubt triggering or exacerbating their medical conditions.

Each of us made another call for an ambulance. Finally, in frustration, she called for an Uber. A driver arrived within five minutes. But, looking at the injured young man, he refused, saying he could be fined for taking him to a hospital.*

Finally, an ambulance showed up and took him and his sister to Metropolitan Hospital. A few minutes ago, his mother called to thank me and let me know that her son will be OK, although the prognosis was the opposite of what any of us expected: In spite of the blood that ran down his face, his head wound wasn’t as bad as anyone thought and he doesn’t have a concussion. He actually hurt his arm worse:  There’s a fracture just above his elbow.

His mother told me that when he rides again “aseguare de que use su casco”: I will make sure that he wears his helmet.

*—None of us knew, until then, that such a law existed. But it makes sense: EMTs and firefighters are trained to move victims’ bodies. An untrained Uber driver (or anyone else) could cause further harm. 

Whoever Is At Fault, Blame The Cyclist

I have no connection with Dartmouth College, much less with its (American) football team.  But reading about what happened to the squad's coach, Buddy Teevens, sent a chill up my spine--not only because of his potential spinal injury, but also because of another he suffered and, more specifically, how and where he incurred those injuries.

Buddy Teevens and his wife, Kristen

A month ago, he and his wife were enjoying an early-spring evening ride in Saint Augustine, Florida. They own a home nearby, and I have ridden there a number of times during visits with my parents.  

Route A-1A, the road that zigs and zags along Florida's Atlantic Coast, cuts through the "mainland" part of the city, crosses the bridge into the area beloved by tourists.  Perhaps not surprisingly, the road is heavily trafficked, as it offers everyone's idealized image of a "road trip" with ocean views--and, for much of its length, has only two lanes.

Also, because it's in Florida--specifically, Northern Florida, which is about as Southern, culturally, as Alabama or Georgia--that traffic includes more than its share of pickup trucks.  Now, I don't mean to pick on pickup truck drivers in particular, but I can understand how they, because of their vehicles' size and potential for speed, feel--especially with those wide marine vistas--that the road is theirs.  And, like SUVs, pickup trucks offer their drivers poor sight lines and even more "blind spots" than smaller vehicles. 

So, whether or not 40-year-old Jennifer Blong was drinking--police declined her offer to take a blood-alcohol test--she struck Mr. Teevens with the Ford F-150 she was driving at 50 MPH in a 35MPH zone.  The constables' report of the crash noted that he wasn't wearing a helmet and didn't have lights on his bike.  It also cited him for "failure to yield the right of way" as he crossed A1A.  

Blong claimed there was "nothing I could do" as Teevens "just kind of appeared in front of me" as he crossed, as the police allege, outside of a desginated crossing area.  

While I, as a longtime dedicated cyclist, can find fault with both Blong and Teevens, I am struck by the Florida Highway Patrol's inclination to place the blame on the Teevens, the cyclist, for the crash.  

That said, I am sad for him and his family because, as of yesterday, the incident had another terrible consequence:  Teeven's right leg was amputated.  And he has a long rehabilitation ahead of him, as a result of his spinal injury.

She Survived Kyiv—But Not Bethesda

 In 2020, I crashed and was “doored” barely three months apart. A few people asked whether I’d give up cycling.  A couple said I should.  But, as I pointed out, I had been a dedicated cyclist for nearly half a century, with no mishaps that caused serious injuries, before those experiences.  Other people drove for less time and had more serious accidents but didn’t give up driving.

A cycling calamity cost Dan Langenkamp even more than both of my crashes cost me, because the price he paid is permanent.  

He was a press attaché and spokesperson for the U.S. Embassy in Kyiv.  His wife, Sarah, was a diplomat. They cycled in and around the city with their son, to work and school and for pleasure. Cycling had been such a part of their lives that Sarah gave him a bicycle with the words “It’s been a great ride!” painted on it.

Along with other Americans, they were evacuated from Ukraine when Vladimir Putain’s, I mean Putin’s, forces invaded the country. They returned to Bethesda, Maryland and worked in nearby Washington, DC.  They continued their bicycle-centered lifestyle until August, when Dan and Sarah were riding home from an open house at their kids’ elementary school. 

A flatbed truck made à right turn. The driver “wasn’t looking,” Dan said.  He made it home but she didn’t.  That truck “crushed” Sarah. He used that word to convey the “violence “ of what happened.  “It was as if the war followed us,” he lamented.

He’s since left his State Department job to advocate for “road safety.”  He understands that agitating for “bike safety “ or “driver awareness” is not enough.  Better road and lane design is also necessary.  So are safety features on trucks, he notes.

He is beginning his campaign today, with a bike rally which includes a ride that will re-trace Sarah’s last.

People in his life have asked him whether he thinks about not riding anymore. Some have implored him to do so.  Of course, he won’t.  Giving up cycling because of bad, careless or malicious drivers, he insists, would be “like changing your life because of terrorists.”

Mary Louise Kelly did a sensitive interview with Dan that aired yesterday:

So, perhaps not surprisingly, she got hurt worse than I did:  The bird, after hobbling, toppling over and continuing on its way, left the woman with a broken wrist and a large cut on her head.

Argentine authorities haven't said what charges, if any will be leveled against the bird.  For one thing, the Argentine speed limit is 40KPH (25MPH) in residential areas and 60KPH (37MPH) in urban areas.  A review of videos could reveal whether the ostrich--which seems to have escaped from someone's home--was doing its "personal best."  Oh, and I have to wonder what Argentinian law says about leaving the scene of an accident.

Really, I Didn't Crash!

 In nearly half a century of cycling, I have had two incidents that sent me to the emergency room.  Both happened in 2020:  I was "doored" in October after suffering a "face plant" in June.  I hope not to endure anything like either of those accidents again (or something worse!).  But if I do--and I'm not seriously hurt--this is how I'll explain it:

Bilingual Bonehead Busted

I really try not to be a mean, vindictive person.  I know it's wrong to wish harm to other people, but...  

There are some people who really deserve to become candidates for the Darwin Awards. The problem is that instead of removing themselves from the gene pool, they harm others.

I am thinking in particular about the spectator who, with her back to the peloton, stepped into its path while holding a banner of bilingual banality:  "Allez Opi-Omi."  Allez, is of course, a French greeting or wish for good luck, while Opi-Omi is a German term of endearment for grandparents.

The latter part of the sign led authorties to believe that she was German or, perhaps, Alsatian or Swiss.  Turns out, she's a local woman, and the gendarmes took her into custody in Landerneau, where the first stage of this year's Tour de France ended.

About 45 kilometers from the first stage finish line, her stupidity, vanity or egocentricity, depending on how you see her action, resulted in one of the worst crashes in recent Tour history.  Eight riders were involved, and one, Marc Soler finished the stage but abandoned the race after fractures were found in both of his arms.

According to local law in Finistere, northewestern France, the woman could be fined 1500 Euros (about 1800 USD), provided that the crash doesn't cause the riders more than three months of inaction.  She could face stiffer penalties, however, if individual riders take action against her.  Soler says he might try to sue her, and Tour organizers say they're considering that option.  

Whatever comes of their actions, the woman will have few, if any, rivals for sheer thoughtlessness.  One can only hope that she doesn't pass on that trait.

This May Have Been An Accident

Oh, no!

That was my reaction upon hearing that a former NBA player died as a result of a bicycle accident in Utah.

The news made me cringe on two levels.  First of all, I thought immediately of Shawn Bradley, of whom I wrote in March.  As he pedaled along a road near his St. George home, a driver struck him from behind and left him paralyzed, with a traumatic spinal cord injury.  I was glad to hear he wasn't the former NBA player I heard about yesterday, though I don't envy his situation.  

I wasn't happy, though, to learn of Mark Eaton's death from "an apparent bicycle accident" in Silver Creek.  At first, I thought  of Henry Grabar's Slate article reminding readers that what happened to Bradley--and incidents like it--are not  "accidents," as they're often (mis)reported.  According to the report I read, Eaton--who, like Bradley, played 12 NBA seasons and was best known as a shot-blocker--was found unconscious in the middle of a road near his home.  Emergency medical personnel treated him and rushed him to a hospital, where he couldn't be saved.

Mark Eaton in 1985

The Utah Office of the Medical Examiner will try to determine the cause of death.  There were no witnesses to whatever happened to Eaton , according to the Sheriff's Office, but authorities believe "no vehicle was involved."

If indeed "no vehicle was involved," it may well be that whatever befell Eaton was an accident. That, of course, doesn't make it any less terrible, any more than his status as a former NBA player makes his passing more tragic.  One can only hope that whatever happened to him, he went with as little pain and suffering as possible, and with the memory of a good ride.

Roy Wallack R.I.P.

One more day!  

That's what remains, after today, of 2020.  For many of us, this year can't end quickly enough.  In addition to the pandemic, natural disasters and all of the other awful events of the world, it seems that so many people (at least of the ones I know) have suffered some tragedies, disasters or setbacks of one kind or another. Or we had plain and simple bad luck:  After nearly half of century of cycling with no serious accidents (a wrecked bike and a few minor injuries), I was--in little more than three months' time--face-planted  and doored.

The face-plant left me with head trauma that, fortunately, didn't result in permanent damage.  I wish I could say the same for Arielle, the bike that started my Mercian obsession.  The dooring didn't do much harm to Negrosa, my vintage Mercian Olympic, but left me with a whole bunch of stitches, a strained muscle and sprained knee.  I'm just starting to get my energy back.

Roy Wallack (right) with Gordon Wright during the 2008 TransRockies Run.

Things could have been worse, though.  On Saturday the 19th, Roy Wallack rode his mountain bike down a steep trail near Malibu, California. He took a fall--no one is sure of how or why, but friends who were riding with him say that it might have been caused by a medical issue.  Whatever the circumstance, the fall resulted in Roy's head hitting a large rock.  

His friends, an EMT and cardiologists who happened upon the scene performed CPR on him until a helicopter arrived.  The rescuers' attempts to save him were for naught.

A terrible irony of that crash is that Wallack hired a personal trainer for his father who "has no disabilities and comes from a long line of centenarians" but whose "problem" was "obvious":  the Easy Boy chair he "hadn't left.. in 30 years (except for Costco and cleaning up in the yard after the dogs)."  The trainer called Wallach's 90-year-old father to urge him onto the treadmill as he's been housebound by COVID-19.

Roy, who intended to ride, run, swim and participate in other outdoor adventures on his way to becoming the latest in his family's line of centenarians, only made it to 64 years old.  But his time was certainly a journey:  While he didn't have the archetypal body of a cyclist or runner, he pedaled Paris-Brest-Paris and many other rides, ran marathons and participated in all manner of outdoor sports, sometimes competitively but more often for the adventure. 

That is what made his writing--for publications such as Bicycling, Runners' World, Bicycle Guide and Outside; and in his books and the Los Angeles Times' Outdoor section--so engaging.  He wrote the way he approached cycling, running and other outdoor activities:  as an adventurer and enthusiast rather than as a "jock." He rarely wore lycra; in the baggy shorts he usually wore, wannabe racers might have seen him as a "Fred."  To me, though, he embodied and expressed the essence of what makes cycling, running, hiking and other outdoor sports lifetime activities rather than games that can be experienced only as a spectator after one reaches a certain age.