This is embarrassing, but I have to come clean: I fell off my bike on Saturday. From a stationary position. At the traffic lights.
I was trying to be a smart-arse and balance without unclipping, in pursuit of the elusive trackstand-success. I felt like it was all under control, but the lights were taking forever to change to green. Forever. I realised that I couldn’t keep it up much longer and I flicked my heel to unclip. But it was too late. The slow-mo chain of events was underway, and I crashed sideways to the kerb, smashing both my knee, and my ego, in one awkward tip to the side.
Luckily, I was riding alone, but on the opposite side of the road were two pros – I say pro – they had shiny bikes, shiny shoes, impeccable white socks and kit. They were much more pro than me anyway. Both poised symmetrically atop their pedals, like greyhounds at Crufts, or those horses that get their hair braided and walk sideways and diagonally in the Olympics. Yes, like cycling dressage.
“Are you ok?” they enquired, surprisingly sympathetic towards my predicament despite my quite obvious retarded-ness.
“Simply super” I replied, lying on the ground with my feet in the air, still attached to pedals, trying to kick off my bike like it were a too-small pair of jeans in a shop changing room. The lights (finally) turned green, cars honked, and I made it back onto the bike. With blood streaming down my leg, I continued into the ridiculous head wind to finish the ride.
On that note, was anyone else out on Beach Road on Saturday? (Tell me you didn’t see me crashing to the pavement…). But really, the wind was worse than I have ever experienced along there. Being AFL Grand Final day, we were scheduled to do a short but intense run-ride-run session, which I think was about 8km/45km/8km. It was a constant see-saw between running/riding super-fast due to a crazy tail wind, or feeling as though you’re going backwards because of the head wind. After my little crash at the lights, the second half of the second run was awful, as sand from the beach was being blasted into my grazes, like, well, like a sand-blaster. I really, really wanted to cry. When I set out on my second run, Jarrod was on the way back in, and we crossed on the beach path.
“I fell off my bike” I whimpered, pointing at the grotesque and bloodied grazes on my knee.
“Poppit, that sucks – don’t make it worse now, stop if you need to” said Jarrod. I really wanted to quit and go home and have breakfast and some pain killers.
“Lance Armstrong says that pain is temporary but quitting is forever” I replied, not really believing my own words. But I carried on. My splits for that second run were about 30 seconds per km slower, so I will blame that on the cuts and bruises (although it’s more likely due to being a sissy).
I was scheduled to swim today, but my knee is still really gross, so I think I will keep it out of the pool for a day or two to save risking infection. I don’t want to risk amputation, after all.
In other news, this week I will hopefully get to ride with some girls at last – head over to gillmergirl.com - Meg is a kick-ass triathlete who will hopefully be able to help me survive my first ironman, although by the sounds of things I’m not sure I can keep up on their rides, but fingers crossed!
And finally, this is what I shall be practicing mostly this week: http://www.cyclingtips.com.au/2009/05/the-trackstand/