The Lore of Mountain Bike Gore

My bicycle – Bianca, She-Goblin of Might – and I had quite an adventure this past Saturday. Well, misadventure, really.

She’s been my trusty mountain bike since 1997 (beautiful autumn-orange-and-black-colored) and we’ve never taken a tumble … until a little wasp decided to fly down my shirt as I flew down the canyon on Saturday.

Now, I imagine how confusing it was for the wasp – a nice buzz through the air one minute, wall of flesh in its face the next. But you would think it would immediately seek fresh air. No, it decided to snuggle under my left breast. And chomp.

“YEEEOOWWWCH!” was all I could think. I wish I had had the presence of mind to deal with the bite, squeeze my breaks, stop, and fish the little sucker out. But no. “YEEEOOWWWCH!” took over my brain and I tried to get that wasp out of my shirt – the shirt which was speeding at several miles-an-hour downhill.

It was surprising how quickly the road moved closer to me. But I’m sure that road was amused at the alternate smacks of Kristen, Bianca, Kristen, Bianca, and so forth until we thumped to a stop with Bianca on top of me. Poor Bianca broke her neck. Luckily I did not. But I easily snapped Bianca’s neck back into place and re-adjusted her seat. My seat, however, wasn’t looking forward to 20 more minutes downhill.

Here’s something I like when one gets involved in a sport – other sportsmen look after you. Immediately a woman stopped on her bike and made sure I was OK before she continued. Though quite shaky, I forced a laugh about a wasp biting my breast. Her partner came right after her and said he had just been stung in the rear. Why do these wasps go for the tender parts? Wait, that’s a silly question. I go for prime rib when presented with my choice of cow.

Anyway, a mere 15 seconds before this wasp’s kiss sent me into a passionate embrace of the pavement, a squirrel had crossed right in front of me. I missed it literally by about 5 inches. My friend Britney later quipped, “Well, for most people, a black cat crossing their path is bad luck …”

Yes, for me, that squirrel was an omen of gore. Black cats are rather good luck to me, because my sweet black kitty, Molly, stayed right by my bathtub as I later soaked the gravel out of my body. She is my comfort, my inspiring “Mews,” as I call her.

As for the gore, those who know me know that I do not like the horror and guts that some people associate with Halloween. I rather prefer the Old World/mystical elements of the season. But for those who would like a dose of gore from me, this story is all you’ll get … unless I get run over by a truck or some squirrels attack me when I’m out running.

So here’s your gore – lively bits of road rash and deep scrapes all over my arms and torso, with three little chunks of skin taken out of my left hand (the hand still works great, thank goodness!). Nice, rainbowy bruises on my right leg and pretty burgundy cuts on my knee. A gash on my right hip bone that resembles something hazy from the solar system.

The real gore, though, appears an inch below my right elbow. All I can say is … it was a HOLE on Saturday. A grotto. A mushy, dark mess with long shreds of skin dangling from it. A thick stream of blood had run down my arm and dried there. As I gritted my teeth and held this ghastly wound under the force of running water filling the tub, a fair amount of gravel came out. Blasted stowaways.

It is frightening to think that I could have had it so much worse, and I know that I am fortunate indeed. My skeleton is intact, including my teeth. I’m also lucky that my friend, Christine, is an ER doctor who hooked me up with a numb shot, scrub, irrigation, and a stitch. She was so compassionate as we laughed at what she called my “little hamburger arm.”

So I’ll be a bit of a hamburger zombie for the next week or so. And now that I think and laugh about it, my stiff walk and hobbling limp really lend to the role. It makes me think of Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman in “Young Frankenstein” …

“Walk this way. No, this way.”