Recount of life through peril

5.21.04 Ca-Scrich.

Today a perilous event occurred. My bike that earlier today was in prime condition has befallen multiple effects of friction. It now has been rendered non-mobile.

I will recount the events leading up to the atrocity by asphalt:

Today was great in the waking. I felt afreshed, as if waves of joy were hitting my face instead of sunlight through my bedroom window. I stared in confoundment at the ever-sloping crests and rummaging ridges of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The atmosphere was inviting, as a slight haze soothed the mountains as they lay in a dormant fix.

The time for adventure now drew nigh. I felt adrenaline rushing to the very centroid of my cranium. I activated the garage door opener, popped my helmet on, snapped my Nalgene hydration pack on my back, checked the tire pressure in my tires, checked the brakes, and began the trek to pending disaster. Little did I know that this old reliable would find its mobility threatened in light of day.

I started off, feeling a bit shaky. I hadn't had lunch yet. I decided to face the challenge anyway. Ingesting a mouthful of dihydrogen monoxide, I clamped down on the pedals and put mind to metal. Everything seemed fine, just like a normal bike ride.

I reached Glade Creek Road, a back road that branches off of the main road of my subdivision and passes under the Blue Ridge Parkway. I climbed up the hill, motivating myself to keep going and facing my pain like a man. After tunneling under the Parkway, I started to ascend a road aptly named Hill Road. Da da da!

I heaved and gasped, nearly collapsing from the lack of oxygen and energy. I washed away the intoxicating void with another respective crunch of melted ice. Still weaving from the intense physical conditions, I trekked on, determined not to let my pain overcome my will. I succeeded. The grade leveled off, indeed descending now. I punched the bike into a higher gear and sped up to the cul-de-sac.

I reached the summit! I accomplished half of the journey. It was all downhill from here. I turned the bike around and began the exhilarating journey down the mountain.

Perhaps if you have heard anything about gravity and rolling friction, you should be very aware that a Clydesdale such as myself indeed travels very quickly downhill. I suspect I was traveling thirty-five miles per hour at certain points, maintaining a good speed of twenty or higher. I descended this particular portion of the Tour de Bonsack faster than I had ever done in the past. I pierced through the wind like a rocket in the sky. I crouched down into a more efficient aerodynamic position, with my chest nearly parallel to the ground. I wisped under the Parkway, and the railroad tracks entered my field of vision.

Now, I had been over these same tracks on a bike more that twenty times I suspect. But never, never this fast. The way the tracks are designed, the road forms a sharp hill where it raises to the tracks, and then takes a sharp left turn immediately after the tracks. I suspect I was traveling nearly twenty-five miles per hour when I hit the quick mound of asphalt.

Right then I realized my mistake. Too much speed. Too fast a turn. Too much momentum. Too little control. Knowing my mistake and fearing for the worst, I clamped down on the front and back brakes. My bike tires instantly locked up and began to dance across the ten feet of asphalt separating me from a large oak tree. The backside fishtailed and slipped as I maintained my goliath grip on the brakes. I fell to one side, and swerved to avoid falling, as I started falling the other direction. This pattern repeated about five times, and finally my bike came to a halt about a foot from the oak.

I stood motionless for about ten seconds. My life had flashed before my very eyes. I looked back and noticed the wild black handwriting on the road directly behind me. I let out a silent "hallelujah," as I had experienced a humbling wreck a little more than a week before. I then continued my adventure and started home.

Except I didn't go but a few inches when I realized my back tire was so warped that it couldn't rotate without rubbing the rear brake. I dismounted and disassembled the back brake. "Everything will be fine," I thought.

Not the case. My back tire was warped far more drastically than I had realized. The tire was locked-up against the very frame of the bike! I couldn't pedal the bike without cringing from the sound of friction and the thought of money for repairs. So I dismounted for the last time and began to carry my old reliable home.

I was not within a comfortable distance of bike heaving home. I trudged up the hill connecting Glade Creek road to Bonsack road. After climbing the short hill, I began the long dark walk up Bonsack road.
The route was easier biked than heaved. I began to sweat profusely and feel my muscles ache as I carried the bike o'er my back. The bike seat continued to knock against my helmet as fellow car drivers pointed and snickered as they passed me by.

I decided to walk up the hill to my house from Bonsack road, a staggering 25-degree slope. I changed carrying arms time and time again. I sipped cool dihydrogen monoxide from my hydration pack. I felt the nerves in my arms reeling with electric activity. I trudged up the fallacious slope. My feet held steady as I carried my love in my arms. I felt a little like Forrest Gump while I carried my friend to safety.

I reached my house. I let out a huge denial of prolific figurines. I wondered if the crescent wheel could be reshaped and fixed, or if indeed my bike would require a new wheel. "No time to think" I thought, as I was late for meeting my mom for lunch. I lay the beloved friend down to rest. "At least for today" I thought. I knew that healing would come with time. I decided not to let circumstances ruin my day.

I let out a big sigh and gazed at the mountains, still coated with a thin film of fog, and realized that, even in this situation, I was kept safe. As my bike tumbled out of control, I was somehow kept from crashing to the ground. Strangely enough, I had been thinking even before embarking on the journey about possibly crashing if I did ride my bike, but I quickly remembered that my life is in God's hands and that my time to die, or suffer pain, will come only when it coincides with God's will. And that, my friend, is an encouraging thought. In fact, I daresay that all of life, every breath, every movement, every motion within every muscle of every body, is in God's hand and control.

This will someday pass into the annals of Donalbainia as an adventure for grandkids to enjoy. If indeed I live to be that old. Hopefully I will, but whatever God's will is, that is what I will have to accept.

Well, it is 23:24 and I have to be at work at 0700 hours. Thus, I must let both my mind and my bike rest and slip off into sweet dreams. Chase after the one true God. Seek after Him with all your might, and you will not be denied truth.

Retiring for the evening, I am and shall always remain

Don Townsend, the artist.