During a recent long run, I was on my way back towards my car to complete my 18kms when two cyclists passed me going uphill.
As I watched one of them struggle up the incline, I noticed a huge tear in the back of his skin-tight cycling shirt, and the deep red scrape underneath it.
This dude had definitely bitten the dust, hard. So hard, in fact, it didn’t look real.
He looked like the Hollywood version of someone who had crashed their bike—like there was a team of special effects and makeup artists crouched somewhere in the bushes, waiting to be called in for touch ups. That doesn’t look painful enough. Can we make it more painful?
“James,” Mr. I-Ate-It called out to the rider ahead of him. “James!” And James slowed down to a stop until they were paused, side by side. I was still churning my way up the incline behind them, closing in just enough to hear this gem:
“The bone in my finger is poking through the skin.” Oh okay.
I was completely useless.
If I had had a role in this production it would have been Woman In Background Of Scene Gaping Silently In Horror And Disgust. I really need to update the First Aid training I took in my Grade 6 babysitting course.
James mumbled something back to him—which I didn’t hear over the alarms ringing in my ears—and the two swung back onto their bikes and continued up the hill, albeit at a slower pace. No place to go but forward, I guess.
Now I’m maybe more horrified than ever at the prospect of biking on the trails. There are times where I almost faceplant at low, low speeds. At a high velocity? On wheels? No thank you.
As I rounded the bend, I locked eyes with the father of a small family of three who were coming from the other direction.
Judging from the expression on his face, he had heard about the bone-out-of-skin situation too and, just like me, he wasn’t ever going to be able to unhear it.