My Not Entirely Successful Attempt to Fly (and Land)

I began an obsessive peddling regimen (opr) on October 20, 2012. I use the word, “obsessive” since from that date to this I have peddled one of my two bicycles a minimum of ten (10) miles at least six (6) days a week. And over the past 2 2/3 years I have accumulated a grand total of 9,000 miles.

But to diverge a moment, I drove a United Parcel Service vehicle for 20 years, and over the last six or eight of those years I wore those sexy brown shorts which have been both lauded and laughed at by the media.

As a result, I managed to get quite a “farmer’s tan,” from my knees to my ankles, and ultimately, having been retired from UPS for a decade and a half, I developed a suspect mole on my right calf. I consulted with an oncologist, and the worst was confirmed.

Melanoma.

Eventually, the malignancy was surgically removed, and when it was “all said and done,” the contour of my lower leg was re-configured, I was left with a nasty scar, and the diameter of my right calf reduced by about a third.

All this to say, (and to continue) I’d prefer to remain a survivor and not a victim, and so I simply don’t peddle in the daylight. But rather, I strike out between 4-5am, and generally finish my circuit an hour and a half later.

I think it’s fair to say I’ve had some unique experiences on my nightly trek the past (almost) three years; experiences which I would have never imagined from the onset of my “obsessive peddling regimen.”

The first scenario fell together as I prepared to begin my exercise routine.

It may have been July or August of 2012 that I mounted my trusty, but not so speedy Schwinn bicycle, and set off on the “highways and byways” of my neighborhood. I had decided that, since I had recently turned 60, I would give up my obsessive jogging regimen (ojr) for something less obtrusive to my knees.

However, on my first time out, (I may not have ridden a bike for forty years or more) I peddled past a particular, rather unkempt house and a small pit bull dashed out of the yard and ran alongside me. Not being all that wise in the etiquette of biking I attempted to outrun the dog. To no avail. For the faster I peddled, the faster he “peddled.”

Ultimately, the little trouble maker was slightly ahead of me, and I chanced on a momentary idea. I aimed the front wheel of my Schwinn directly at his hind quarters. Suddenly, much to my own detriment, I realized my plan was possessed of at least one (major) flaw. As soon as I slammed into the beast both my, and his positive momentum ceased. One of Newton’s Laws infers that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

(Mr. Newton, you were right!)

Suddenly, I found myself sailing gracefully, (well, not so much) over the handlebars, and landing rudely on the asphalt. My friend, the human body is simply not designed to fly,

… nor to land after having flown.

While I cannot provide you any conclusive information about the fate of the dog, (though I believe he fared a great deal better than I) sadly I immediately gleaned a great deal of anatomical feedback about my own welfare. I knew.

I had broken my left arm.

As I lay in the middle of the road an adolescent girl casually walked up, and introduced herself. The dog’s owner. As I lay there looking up at her, I recall  extending my one good arm, shook her corresponding hand, and began to extol the virtues of an inside environment for small dogs. Shortly thereafter, a (strong) young man drove up in a truck, graciously loaded up my bike and yours truly, (literally lifting me from the pavement like a baby) and ferried us home.

Reminiscent of the Titanic, my “maiden voyage” had not been without incident. And though my frail frame finally mended, (unlike the Titanic) it was several months before I attempted to “sail” again.

**Read "Two People Driving One Car" next

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 4)