I wanted to get off of my feet for a bit and let my plantar take a well-deserved summer vacation. I still wanted to stay active and in shape, so what better way than to ride a bike and get hit by a car.
I was also hoping to get into the exclusive tri world after spending the better part of winter learning how not to drown. Getting a bike was the next logical step in the tri-fecta, well, that is after picking up a pair of calf sleeves.
(I could post a different pic...)
It was love at first sight.
The bike was a Specialized Roubaix with less than 100 miles on it. The thing fit me like a glove. Well, it did after the two hour bike fitting where they changed up a couple of the parts like the seat and the stem and the....
Me and Mr. Roubaix went everywhere. I started biking to work, went to the beach, to the movies, up and down RT 38, defying the odds and cheating Death on more than one occasion.
But like in the movies, you can't cheat Death forever.
The last thing I wanted to do after the FL50 was run, so to get ready for the San Francisco Marathon, which was a month away, I just biked and biked and biked.
I hit the road on my bike full-time and pretty much spent every waking mile on the thing. I was a rider possessed.
I could definitely feel the benefits of biking, especially after climbing hills and putting in more than 100 miles on a good weekend of riding.
My plantar was finally feeling better, but I still didn't feel like running. Could I possibly break 3 hours at SF on just biking alone? I guess we'll find out soon enough.
With two weeks to go before the west coast road trip I was still biking when I should have been tapering. Biking can be deceiving in that way. You feel great when you're on it, but that only masks the ass kicking that your legs are taking.
I told myself that I just wanted one more good ride before I took it easy. One more fateful ride.
I work in Burlington and had a meeting in Boston on that beautiful day, so I decided to drive to work and then bike into Boston with the intent of biking back to Burlington after the meeting. The days were still long at this point with the sun setting well after 8PM.
Unfortunately, I didn't get out of the meeting until well after 8PM.
I did, hoewever, plan ahead for my own funeral and brought along blinkers, headlamps, a night vest, and a sign that read, "don't fucking hit me".
I knew I was in trouble when, after pulling over partway through my ride and getting into an arguement with the ex over the phone, my phone/GPS died on me.
I was officially lost and riding blind, going up and down the wrong streets. It was now scary dark and the only thing out at this time of night is trouble.
I eventually managed to make my way back onto a street that I was familiar with, and one that I knew would take me straight back to Burlington as long as I didn't get killed.
Easier said than done.
At the corner of Winn and Wyman in Burlington, about three miles from my workplace, I crossed the intersection where Death would find me riding my beloved bike.
I saw the car approaching, but the driver gave no indication of making the left hand turn....right into me.
I remember hitting the hood of the car, rolling off, and hearing the tires on my bike exhale as it got thrown out from under me and about 15 feet from where I was hit. Ouch.
I laid on the ground in agony and of course the first thing that popped into my Buicide brain was, "Damn, I hope I can still run San Francisco."
It was time to taper.