The Wounded Rider .

Here I sit, inventorying the damage, listening to Neil Young, periodically dropping a pain pill, a Valium or a antibiotic, thinking about the 50's when they'd dunk a guy like me onto a vat of Mercury for it's healing powers. It's not the bruises, I know their short lived, the cuts turn in to battle scars, the ribs will stop pulling when I breathe. The most painful aspect is impact with cement, unforgiving, brutal, solid, cutting, how can an element that serves mankind in so many good capacities be so brutal to its' makers? I've yet to hit a sidewalk or street that's had any mercy on me, no softening, no breaking , no absorbing, just oooooof! , out with your lungs ,the solid hit on your bones , muscles, appendages, you raise your head and first wonder what the hell happened then realize it don't matter now, take inventory of bones ,  stop blood flow,
don't have to worry about picking up your bike, someone will stop and do that for you.
Stand up , stretch out, check systems for operation , humble yourself, acknowledge that maybe your  not invincible, check your bike ,will it take you home? can you take you home? or do you make that pitiful call, "come and get me "please", a fate worse than the crash.
Gravel, dirt, road debris, cover your wounds like a bad bandage. I ask the lifesavers if they caught the incident on video, they never do, such an event should be recorded for study, to enable reliving  the pain of impact over and over and over and over. I knew I was due,  my bad Karma had risen to unspeakable levels. I'd like to have said I fell so hard it knocked my shoes off ,but since they were still strapped to the pedals, facing different directions,  that didn't happen. Just like a Tarzan movie all the animals stop making animal noises, the dogs, cats, rats, birds, nutrias, chubracabras, coyotes, all are silent for they know the flubby giant has slapped the earth. They pause without attempting to pick up the bike.  Ok, so no bones are broken , the bleeding stopped, you've cleaned out the debris from your wounds, some of your humility has returned, only cause you did it all yourself,  check out the bike,wheels are round, handles still up, seat still on, brakes work , time to go .    In a documentary about snake handlers,  one was bitten 17 times by poisonous snakes and continues to this day . One bitten 7 times did die. These men are obsessed with their hobbies. The obsessive bicyclist is the same possessed soul.  The obsession commands you to fit it's needs, no fear of pain, injury, or even death.  Obsession and compulsion harbor in your Psyche, shift your gears, drive you like a  diesel truck, they have no mercy, conscious, or feelings , they delicately balance you on a tightrope , one side sanity, one side hell. It drives you to hell at it's  notion.
I can only take the ride so I do . There's no ridding this demon, you can't remove it because it's you.  A parasite created by your own emotions and fed well by your fears and anxieties.
It's appetite is never satisfied , wants more and more and more, unrelenting it insanely controls your perception of reality , so once again , beware, what you see may not be what you saw, what you hear may not be what you heard,and what you think may not be what you thought. .
 I close with Caruso doing Vesti la Gubba...
gary
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