Bicycle Blues

Over the past 3 2/3 years I have pedaled a grand total of 11,220 miles.

Now I’m not talking about a stationary bike. I’ve tried that sorta thing before, and ‘going nowhere fast’ just ain’t that much fun. 

Nope, every morning about 4am I mount my trusty bike and pedal 10 miles. 

Granted, it’s the same scenery on a nightly basis, but at least I’m ‘going somewhere (fast).’ Now, I’m not stupid enough to pedal in the bike lane of the nearby four lane highway. Too many people have gotten killed that way. But rather, 95 percent of my pedaling is done on the concrete sidewalk which borders that particular thoroughfare. 

All in all, my nightly trek has been a ‘pretty safe bet.’ However, the first of the last three words represents a portent of things to come, (though I admit what ultimately happened wasn’t all that ‘pretty’).

A couple of years ago, as I was pedaling in my neighborhood, a small terrier darted out of a yard and proceeded to chase me down. I have long since forgotten whether what occurred next was purposeful on my part, or not so much. However, (there’s that word again) before the chase was over I ran smack dab into the hapless canine. 

Flying over the handlebars I landed rudely on the pavement, and summarily… broke my left arm. You might imagine at that point my knowledge of the dog’s wherewithal was ‘gone with the wind.’ To this day I cannot tell you whether he lived or died; (though I’m quite sure, at the very least, he was the worse for being run over by a bike).

Well, my friend I can tell you I learned a hard lesson that day; (with the emphasis on ‘hard’). So much so, I was convinced that I would avoid any similar calamity in the future.

Given the fact that the accumulation of multiplied thousands of miles exert a great deal of wear and tear on a bicycle, six or eight weeks ago I traded in my third for a fourth. A somewhat faster model … with thinner tires. 

And I readily admit the first time out, and less than a half mile from home I caught the smallest lip of a curb, and (you guessed it) found myself hurdling through the air in an all too familiar fashion; landing ‘spread eagle’ on the sidewalk. While I sustained modest damage to my chin, both hands and my left knee, I cannot say the same for the other knee.

Well dear reader, over the next couple of weeks I continued to pedal my familiar trek with no apparent permanent harm until… my right knee began to swell, and fill with fluid. Twice I reported to urgent care and had the fluid aspirated. The third time around the physician ordered an MRI which ‘told the tale’ (and told it well). I had torn my meniscus ligament, and torn it badly. Having consulted with an orthopedic doctor he informed me of some historic damage. It seems I lack a significant amount of cartilage between the bones of the inflicted knee, and that I have a significant amount of arthritis; (though oddly enough, my pain level hovers at a zero). Goose egg. Nada. Zilch.

My wife has urged me to cease and desist from my lunacy in favor of some other form of exercise.

And yet, I do so love it. 

Ummm, I see I need to cut my story short. Please excuse me, but

…It’s almost 4am.

(No, I didn’t sign up for those short flights ending in excruciating landings. But what are two rather inconvenient nightly excursions when measured against over a thousand which ended with pleasant conclusions)?

Post-Script - Make that 11,230 miles.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 38. Copyright pending

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