Saturday morning means one thing: my long bike ride. All week long, I was looking forward to the ride because everyone was abuzz with “how nice” the weather would be. Hmmm. Well, the sun and warm temps must have taken a pass on the Southern Jersey shoreline on Saturday morning.
When we woke up, it was foggy, damp and chilly. My original plan had been to get up early (which I did) and complete my ride, leaving most of the day to catch up on work. No dice. It just wasn’t safe to head out a 7:00 a.m. with such low visibility. I like to be fully visible to cars, who frequently are not looking for cyclists.
I decided to wait a bit to see if the fog would lift. By 9:15 a.m., I could see the sun beginning to burn through the mist. So, I saddled up.
Cycling is not my strength, and over the past several weeks, I’ve been struggling to find my rhythm and strength. This ride was different. I was zipping along, at a comfortably challenging pace, about 17 miles per hour average, with an average heart rate hovering between 128-132 bpm. Perfect. That’s exactly where I want it for the Ironman. Beyond the pace and the heart rate, I felt good. I rarely get on or off the bike thinking, “Wow, that feels good.” It’s just not my thing. But, this ride was looking to be an exception.
I was being mindful to take a quick drink every 15 minutes or so, and I was practicing getting into and out of aero bars (clipped to the front of my bike), using the drop bars (the undercurved part of the bike’s handlebars), and riding on the cow horns. The course that I had selected was moderately hilly, at least by Southern New Jersey standards, and I was working the uphills – maintaining a high cadence despite the elevation change. It was just perfect.
And then, about 1 hour and 21 minutes into the ride, it was just horrific. In just 3 seconds, my ride went from awesome to awful.
Somewhere along Weekstown Road (for those of you familiar with the area), a car came whizzing by me, dangerously close. I was on my aero bars, and flinched. My front wheel jutted sharply to the right, and I lost control of the bike. I watched as the ground rose up to make contact with the right corner of my helmet. I heard the crush of plastic and foam. I felt the asphalt scrape my knees, legs, and arms. That moment, about 3 seconds, seemed to last 3 minutes.
Then, the scene became chaotic. I was hyperventilating, laying in the middle of the road. I grabbed my bike, and pulled myself and it to the side of the road. I lay in the dirt shoulder, gasping for air. I ripped off my helmet, my windbreaker (bright yellow, mind you). I felt nauseous, dizzy, scared.
According to my Garmin data, I was moving at 19.3 mph when I went down. I estimate that I skid along the road about 6 or 7 feet (as determined by the trail of sports drink that spilled from my aero bars as I skidded).
The woman in the car behind me, pulled her car up to block any other cars from getting to close to me. Luckily (or is it ironically?), the road I was on didn’t have many cars. But, it is a long stretch of tar, and the cars that do use it, move fast. She got out of the car.
“Are you okay?” she asked me.
“Huh [gasp] I [wheeze] think so [gasp],” I replied.
“Do you need help?”
“Not [gulp air] sure. I [gasp] have a [gasp] phone,” I managed to say.
She said she was going down the road a bit to drop her recyclables at the dump, and would be back in a minute to check on me. True to her word, she returned. By that time, I had called John, who was working on trying to calm me down.
“Are you hurt?” That was the first thing he wanted to know. Uh, was I hurt? Was that meant to be a trick question?
“Yes,” I whimpered. But, he didn’t mean “normal” bike crash hurt. He meant, “Are you out of the game hurt?” He meant INJURY.
I surveyed all my limbs, and looked at the bloody pulps of skin all over my body. Despite what it looked (and felt) like, I realized, no, I wasn’t “out of the game” injured.
After that, I needed about 10 minutes on the side of the road to collect myself. Eventually, I was able to breathe normally, the rush of adrenaline subsided, and the dizziness went away. As I stood there, the handful of passersby were quite community-minded. Almost every single motorist stopped to make sure I was okay. And I was–once I got my wind back.
As I was preparing to get back on my bike, the car that had passed me right as I fell came back. He said, “Are you okay? I realized I could have been a little more generous with the space I left you.”
At that moment, I realized why I had fallen. I looked at him, a bit incredulously. “Is that what happened? Oh. [long pause] I had a nasty fall.”
He smiled, “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Sorry about that.” And, then he whizzed off. Oh, yeah, I’m fine, jackass. Thanks. I realize it wasn’t his fault that I crashed – I should have had better control of my bike – but really?
I got back on the bike (which was virtually unscathed), scared and a little wobbly. I was never able to regain my original rhythm–not even close. I was just past the halfway mark on my ride when I crashed, and had to crawl home 19 miles at a measly 12 mph average. I think in some ways, this shift was the biggest disappointment. I was having a stellar ride until that point. I had cruised a little more than 21 miles, averaging 17 miles per hour, and feeling stronger by the mile. All told, the ride took me 2 hours and 58 minutes, for a total of 41.65 miles.
I’m happy I made it home in one piece. I’m also a little bit happy that the crash happened; it seems an appropriate part of Ironman training. I feel tough, seasoned. After all, it was bound to happen at some point, and I figure riding another hour and a half after crashing builds character. At least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.
