the Fifty Seventh Story

This morning, at nine AM, I rode through the beginnings of a Santa themed pub crawl. That really ought to have been enough of a hint for me to take a different route home.

the Fifty Sixth Story

Then, on my way home today, I was crusing along in my empty bike lane, next to a long line of stopped cars waiting for their light. There was someone double parked blocking my lane. The cabbie on his back end actually put his taxi into reverse and pulled back far enough to give me room to merge into his lane. Then the taxi in front of him pulled forward, allowing enough room for me to pull back into my bike lane and keep moving. Right now I have a lot of love for Chicago taxi cabs.

the Fifty Fifth Story

so, a couple days ago, I was riding peacefully down Clark. The taxicab behind me saw the guy in the parked car in front of me start to open his door. He came to a screeching halt to allow space for me to swing out around the door, and then he got out of his car to yell at the dude for not checking and almost dooring a bicyclist.

the Fifty First Story

When I was first riding a bicycle in Boston, it was a little old upright English three speed. She was a great, easy little bicycle. Her name was Daphne. Riding to work one day, I was hit by a car. There was no serious damage, either to me or my bike (those things are tanks) and the driver was not confident in her legal status, so I sent her on her way. The biggest issue with the bike was that the seat post had bent, so I pulled up onto the sidewalk to try to straighten it enough to continue on my way. In about 3 minutes, the BU cops showed up. I said I was fine, and sent them on their way. Then a Boston city police car pulled up. I explained that I was fine, and they left. About 30 seconds later a firetruck pulled up. I explained that my bicycle was unlikely to explode, but while we were still talking, another firetruck and an EMT guy showed up. Yet again, I explained that I was fine. Then another policeman showed up- the EMT guy took over the job of pointing out my lack of injuries. Finally, about 10 minutes after the crash (longer than I would have been held up there if not for all the interruptions) an ambulance showed up. The EMT guy told them I was ok, and just fixing my bike. They wanted to take me in just to check things out. I was already late for work, knew I was uninjured, and was not going anywhere. They tried to insist. I said no. Then one of them piped up with "well, at least let us clean your road rash". I was going to work and didn't have a  full first aid kit with me, so that actually sounded ok, until he followed it with "just step into the back of the van, and we'll get it cleaned up right away. I looked at the EMT guy. He shook his head and mouthed "no". I said I'd be happy to sit on the curb while they did it. They looked really quite pissed. I am utterly convinced they would have kidnapped me to the hospital.

The Twenty Second Story

While I'm on bicycle accident stories- here's the velveteen rabbit story. A warning- while I think this story is funny & uplifting, there is one gruesome passage. this story takes place rather a while ago, when I first got my first "adult" bike, in Boston. He was a 1960's Peugeot road bike, named Squirrel.

For Yom Kippor, instead of fasting, I decided i was going to go on a very long bike ride, all by myself. I started from Massart, and rode all the way to the end of the minutman trail, and then kept going to that funny little petting zoo/ icecream stand out in new bedford somewhere? I don't know. Then i went swimming at a little lake near Walden Pond. Then I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark, and I considered just staying there, but it's not really an isolated location, and I didn't have a well hidden spot, so, I got ready to start home. I had a cheap little plastic flashlight in my bag, but no headlight, so I taped the flashlight onto my handlebars with medical tape. Technically, the bike path is closed after dark, but I didn't know any other way home, so I went back to it and started down it. At the very first road crossing, my flashlight fell off, and was promptly run over by the only car i saw the whole night. Still, things were going well- the moon was out and lit the path in silver, like some sort of magical route that would lead me to the Last Homely House. The only obstructions were ballards. The ballards at that end of the path are formidable- made of cast cement and topped with the sharp remnants of cast bronze bike seats; but the ballards are at street crossings, which are well lit. Except for this one set at a driveway. It turns out that, the way these ballards are spaced, a bike will just about fit between them- but not the rider. So I hit them, and flew through the air for a bit. No doubt, I yelled. Then I laid quietly on the ground, and thought about what hurt. Only two spots- something on my back, and something on my right leg. I felt my back- no big deal, a little raw, probably hit a pedal. I felt my leg. There was a gap. There was definitely no flesh in a place where there should be. And remember- I had no light. So I stood up, rolled my pants down over the spot, picked up my bike and, in the scariest moment of this whole story, knocked on the door of the house whose driveway this was and asked to use the bathroom. They gave me a lecture about proper headlights on a bicycle, which pretty much set me at ease that they were ok people, and let me in. Once in the privacy of their well lit bathroom, I took a look. Sure enough, there was a big chunk of leg missing, and a 1inch by 2 inch section of bone showing, but it was the front of the shin, and wasn't bleeding much at all. Still, I put some gauze over it, and taped it up. I rolled my pants back down, thanked the folks, and walked out. There is a separate, and also very nice, story about my getting a ride, but this one's already too long, so suffice to say that I made it back to the city and got stitched up.

That night, I dreamed that my piece of leg, with bunny ears, was hopping around the trail, free and happy as could be. The image still makes me smile. And while there are many bunnies on that path, and thus I am quite certain it is coincidence, every single time I use that trail, I always see a bunny right at that point on the trail. I like to think the bunny is my liberated chunk of leg.

the twenty first story

I haven't been writing up stories- I have been too busy making them in copper. So here's the pie story:

First, context. A few years back, I signed up for the Downtown Crossing Holiday Market. It was insane- seven days a week, outside in Boston in December, and the thing was open for something absurd like 11 hours a day. I was set up across from a farm stand staffed by a delightful young fellow who made the whole thing bearable. Also, I had good boots, and it was close enough to home that I could ride my bike back and forth. I rather ended up enjoying myself.

The day in question, the lad over at the farm stand unpacked fresh baked pies in the morning. As he was unpacking them, he announced to us what they were. Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple, and one blackberry. I think I squealed. It's possible. I love blackberry pie. He asked if I wanted it, and I said I'd have to see how the day went. I talked to eighty bazillion people that day, and he talked to a least three times as many as I did, and i forgot that conversation. Towards the end of the day, he came back over and asked how my day had gone. I made a sour face, but someone walked into my booth before I answered. Appleman went back to his booth, picked up the pie, carried it back over, lifted a corner of my tablecloth, and slid it underneath, with his finger over his lips in the universal symbol for "we shall never mention this". I smiled very big.

Now, the pie had to come home with me.I was on my fixie- no rack, no basket, mustache bars are terrible to balance anything on, and my riding position is leaned so far forward that putting the pie in my bag was not even an option. So I tucked it under my left arm and road home. We lived in Somerville, and it was not a long commute- perhaps four miles? Certainly less than six. The bridge was an adventure, what with the wind, and the large flat box, but I made it all the way to my street with no real problem. I turned into my street, and hit an enormous pothole that had been there all winter and which i knew all about. I flipped over, landed with one leg through the frame, my bag tangled on the seat, my arm, still holding the pie box, stretched out in front of me. I was entangled in the bike, and unable to get up, but I was just able to reach the box and open the corner.

The pie was right side up, and uninjured. Life is awesome.