Self Attack

My cycling year has been a fairly interrupted affair, with a variety of things intruding into riding life. The two most painful intrusions were my lie-down mid crit in February and my human mortar act in April. Both of these I have recovered from successfully, and neither have really served to dampen my enthusiasm for bikes.

Looking back over my bike riding years I've been pretty fortunate with crashes that I have escaped largely unscathed, sometimes losing a bit of bark, sometimes a few bruises and, apart from the collarbone, no broken bones. I have broken bones in a number of other manner and activities, but the two sports that I have engaged in most, that also seem to carry a high risk of bone breakage (horse riding and cycling), have proven to just be bruising and skinning experiences up until April this year.

One of the most humorous falls I ever had, and also one of the more embarrassing after the event, was mountain biking after work one summer in Dunedin. I had parked the car near Signal Hill and ridden across town to meet the others and ride in the forest on the back of Three Mile Hill.

There were four of us, and it was a lovely, warm, dusty evening. We were ripping down a section of smooth double track and I was third wheel, sitting very close to the rider in front. There was broom growing either side of the track with grass down the centre. As we swept along the rider in front of me hit a low hanging branch of broom, served and the branch came swinging back and took me clean off my bike. I cartwheeled and slide in the gravel and grass. Apart from pride, and a small cut on my knee, one of those excellent wounds that leaks deep red blood, I was unhurt and laughing, as were the others.

I remounted as last rider and rode off. It wasn't until we hit the bottom of the hill and fanned out of the road that anyone was behind me. It was then that the true horror of my crash became apparent. I had ripped the seam in the back of my shorts, from waist to chamois, and a less than sightly, hairy bike stand was on show.

Never being one for letting minor details like that stop me riding, we carried on and had a great ride, but as we finished in the forest it dawned on me that I still had 30 minutes to wobble across central Dunedin to the car, with a less than stellar rear view showing. It was mildly humiliating and thankfully unwitnessed by anyone who knew me.

Saturday morning's earthquake in Canterbury was a pretty sobering reminder of the power of nature, and just how puny we are. Here is A decent bit of science explaining just what happened.