This happened a few days ago but it's still relevant because it still hurts.
Due to the fact that I've never fallen off a bike since I started using it as a means of daily transportation- even when I probably deserved it- I've gotten cocky. (This is foreshadowing)
Gleefully oblivious to the sub-freezing temperatures, I confidently set off on
my Nicole's sweet cruiser down to the Barmuda Triangle on Friday night around 10 PM.
I got an astounding two blocks from my house before calamity struck.
It seems that I single-handedly located and peddled across the only patch of ice between my house and the 4800 block of Hawthorne Blvd. Being the cautious and reasonable lass I am, I saw fit to pull a Tour De France maneuver and speed-lean into the turn from Lincoln to 42nd Avenue rather than attempt to negotiate the curve with a sense of mortality.
The results were devastating.
Actually, they could have been way worse. The fabulous news is that I did NOT fly over the handlebars. I didn't even flip ass-over-teakettle like one of those dragsters as seen on that show,
Destroyed In Seconds.However, I did eat shit.
Friction failed, conservation of momentum won and the fat kid slid across the ice as
my Nicole's bike lost contact with the pavement.
I hit on my left side and slid like
2 miles probably only 3 feet on the ice and asphalt and came to a halt with half the 40-lb bike smooshing me into the ground. I immediately yelled WHAT THE FUCK?! and looked furiously around for the the wise-guy who put that slippery shit right in my way as I was peddling around, minding my own business.
The good news is nobody saw it happen, or at least if they did they felt sorry for me and didn't let me hear them laughing. Thanks, neighbors. The good news is also that I was wearing pants instead of a skirt, which was a total fluke occurrence and I was thisclose to putting on my fluffy petticoat and hand-made skirt combo right before I strutted out the door. If there's anything funnier/sadder than a girl falling off a bike in the middle of the street, it's a girl in a petticoat looking like a pretentious 19th-century whore falling off a bike in the middle of the street.
Anyway.
I got back up, manually re-aligned the handlebars with my front tire and continued on my way to BOG and Spaceroom- where I got very drunk, then biked home again at last call, taking the same route and displaying even less self-preservation than the first trip.
Then I woke up Saturday morning and two things happened. You pick which one is funnier:
1) I had a giant bruise down my left arm all the way to my elbow. Also a hand-sized bruise (I mean hand-with-all-the-fingers-stretched-out-sized) on my thigh. This was inconspicuously located directly beneath my giant bruise-colored thigh tattoo, creating a deceptive appearance as being part of the ink (dude, is that gray wash?) which sucked for two reasons:
a) I keep forgetting its there until I touch it, then I yelp like a little bitch
b) It's visually unimpressive and is a poor exhibit to show off while I tell this story, so you're just gonna have to take my word on it that it is HUGE and PAINFUL.
2) I put the same pants back on to go out to breakfast, and as soon as I walked outside I noticed my right ass cheek was really cold. How could this be? I reached back, and (nofuckingway!) my pants were ripped. WHICH MEANS I walked around with them like that ALL NIGHT at the bar after I wrecked my shit on the way there.
Good news:
I was wearing black tights all night underneath so hopefully nobody noticed.
Bad news:
I still wore these pants to breakfast, as is.
And, scene.
