He had been training for months. With only three days left before the big ride, he was sitting in the hospital’s ER waiting room with a blood-soaked towel strapped to his leg by a peeling brown belt. There was no indication as to whom the belt belonged. Vaguely, he remembered two men running up to him after he fell off his bike, and then he looked at his leg and passed out as his stomach turned over. It must have belonged to one of them. The emblem on the belt looked like a bird or something. Slouched in a chair in the waiting room, he hadn’t gotten up to ask for any help. Had the men brought him here? Did they check him in, or had he just been passed out there, wasting time?
When he heard that his local cycling club was planning a 500 mile trip to Toronto to attend a convention, he decided that he just had to go. He’d been riding an old 1968 Schwinn Varsity that his father had given him when he showed an interest in cycling a few years back. It was marvelous. It still had the glossy coat of yellow paint, with just a few minor scratches, and all the original parts. Before he even rode it the first time, he took the whole thing apart to clean each piece individually, making it look brand new. The result was astonishing; he received compliments every time he rode it. The chrome shone like the bumper on his father’s classic Ford Thunderbird. The best part was that the heavy, solid steel frame gave him more of a workout than the aluminum or carbon frames that the newer bicycles used. He was in love.
He spent the entirety of November carefully taking each piece, unscrewing it from the frame, and polishing it. It must have been done 12 or 15 times. When it was in top shape, it was like riding on air. Since it was snowing outside, he wasn’t able to immediately take it out into public and show everyone what he had done. Nor was he able to train outdoors, so he went to his local cycling shop and bought a trainer. He hooked it up to the back wheel, got on the bike, and pedaled for hours. Needless to say, since he hadn’t ridden a bicycle in close to two years, his legs felt like jelly the next day. Most of the day was spent in his bed, looking at past footage of bicycle races, checking out the profiles of some of the elite riders in the world, and browsing online stores looking for jerseys and shoes and the other accessories he thought he needed. Finally, at night, he hopped back on the bicycle, but only did a couple of miles, to save his legs from another day of helplessness.
While he was searching the internet one day, he came across the website of a local cycling club ,and he joined the mailing list. He didn’t expect much to come from it, except maybe to come in contact with other people that shared his newfound passion. This changed when he opened the weekly newsletter one day and saw the advertisement for the trip to Toronto. 500 miles seemed like a really long distance to him, but with five months before they were planning on leaving, he knew he would be able to get himself up to that level. He set up a routine that consisted of riding a couple hours a day; it also included a couple cardio and leg workouts to get his body prepared for the ride. This was something he was going to push himself to accomplish.
The towel around his leg made him think of each of these events. It made him remember the 117 days that he spent riding and training for something that was just a hammer’s throw away. As the doctor came into the waiting room and called his name, he stood up and felt a stabbing agony in his leg that could only be caused by tearing flesh. The obvious pain was written on his face, and the doctor and a nurse rushed over to help him into the examination room. Once there, he was able to sit down and take a couple breaths before the doctor unclasped the belt and peeled the blood-caked towel from his leg. The gash that was where his calf muscle should have been allowed him to look directly into his leg. He immediately called in another nurse and told her to get him some pain medication. To save him from having to watch what they did next, he covered his face with a pillow and just suffered through it.
He stayed overnight, and the next morning his father came and drove him home to rest for the day.
When he woke up the next day, he carefully hobbled out to the garage to look at the mess that he created two days earlier. He picked up the pieces, put them on his table, and got to work. Sitting on a stool, his damaged leg outstretched, he carefully took apart the pieces and slowly cleaned them. He had done this a couple dozen times, but this time was different. He wasn’t doing it because he knew he’d be riding it in 40 minutes; he was doing it for the sake of doing it. The grease blackened his hands, and the bandage on his leg was beginning to soak through, so he finally screwed on the nut that held the pedals in place. It looked beautiful once again, aside from the lack of paint. The gears were fixed as well as he could manage, and the chain was able to stay on as he moved the pedals with his hand. Just like clockwork.
He convinced himself that one short ride wouldn’t kill him, so he took the bike off the stand and put it in the trainer. The first couple rotations were painful, but eventually it felt good to be riding again. His leg ached but the familiar movement of his knees going up and down, up and down, was enough to lift his spirits. For the remainder of the day he would ride for ten minutes and then rest for a while, ride for ten minutes, and then rest and change his bandage. Each time he peeled off the bandage and looked at the 210 stitches in the side of his leg, he had a moment of anxiety followed by a feeling of victory. Sure, it had kept him down for a day, but it wasn’t about to keep him from going on his trip.
He showed up the next morning at the designated meeting place, just under the town’s central clock tower, to the amazement of everyone there. They hadn’t expected him, but there he was, 210 stitches and all. He realized that maybe it wasn’t the best decision, but he wasn’t going to let that impede his attempt. When the little hand sat daintily, pointing at the nine, and the big hand swept up and covered the 12, everyone got on their bikes and started off down the street.
After the first 50 miles, he could feel his leg begin to tighten. Luckily, the group stopped to get something to eat. That seemed to be all he needed, because when he got back on his bicycle, he felt a new energy. They set up a couple tents in a field just off the main road and slept as the morning dew fell softly over the grass. The next day they got an early start, and as the green plains washed past, he saw fields of solid yellows, reds, and purples. The landscape seemed to stretch on forever.
By the third day, they had decided to pick up the pace so that they could make it to the city that night. About an hour after they set out, he felt one of the 210 delicate stitches in his leg split, causing others to slowly pull out. In less than ten minutes, he could feel the warmth begin to puddle in his shoe, and he could see little drops of blood being tossed off the pedals as they spun. He stopped to check his leg. As he removed the bandage, the blood that had been trapped in it flowed out, all over the rich green grass. He carefully put two bandages together and taped them over his leg; somehow, he let the next couple miles disappear from his memory, and he found himself sitting in another emergency room. The difference this time was that his bicycle stood next to him, looking elegant, with drops of blood splattered on the frame. He called his father, and after having all 210 stitches removed and replaced, he rode home, with the polished chrome bumper of his father’s Thunderbird glistening as the sun fell beyond the horizon.
