The horror... the horror. Indeed, the joy of bicycling is a wonderful thing, especially when a cyclist finishes the day on the perfect run. The bliss, sitting there, on the sofa relaxing and reflecting on the great time on the ol' bike. Sippin' your suds, like a jerk, bragging about that awesome corner turned, that rock jumped, that perfect cadence maintained. Until... until that moment of truth comes to fruition... the CRASH, the WIPE-OUT, the BIG SPILL! "I'm hurt, boo hoo hooo hooo." "Oh NO...my beautiful legs, my beautiful elbows!"
So how do we handle freak-out-city? We relish it... that's how. It's part of the game, and these are the rules. and nobody said it is going to be a joy ride...or do they? Eh hem... so... oh sure, your wife looks at you like your some idiot, or a fool that's eventually going to kill themselves... but a boy or girl has to LIVE THE DREAM for cryin' out loud.
So we wrap up the oozing wounds, wear loose pants, and get back on the iron horse. From the first road rash to the last bloody gouge, the dedicated cyclist will wear these scars as a badge of honor. A gnarly, scab ridden medal really. Only to be revealed, at awkward and inappropriate times, and discussed with annoyingly lengthy pride. In time, the true cyclist will learn to love these marks as good friends... sometimes even naming them, and even loving them like a trusted pet. Hence... The Wolverine (not shown in the attached picture), but that is for another story.