I was returning from a short 25-mile ride that included sufficient elevation climbing. In my neck of the woods, this is pretty common. The road ahead was clear. I checked behind me for traffic, then reached for the drops. All good. With serotonin-fulled exuberance, I bolted down a short decline and darted into a right-left, one-way chicane. Coming out of the left's apex, I got off my seat to keep pace at around 30 mph, easily breezing up the short 40-foot climb. Reaching flat, I noticed a stop sign ahead, and decided to postpone braking in favor of speed and the wind in my face. When I finally pulled, I could have been cast for a kung fu flick. Straight over the handlebars, my bike flipping with me. Hilariously embarrassing. The aftermath left me with two levers curiously bent inwards like some failed attempt at aerodynamics, and, it goes without saying, a severely bruised ego. I mended these wounds by laughing at myself, and thinking to myself how much worse it could have been, physically speaking, than a few scrapes on the knees. The remaining two miles home were ridden quite gingerly, with an ambivalent consciousness as I struggled to understand this quizzical mix of serotonin, adrenaline, and shame. Again, I dealt with the situation with laughter. Thank god I was riding alone.
How about you?
