At the risk of sounding boastful, I have to say that I’m inordinately proud of having thrived for over seven decades. Despite having done (and some might say “still doing”) some risky things, I’ve managed to make the right decisions often enough not to have died. “Live to ride again”, is my mantra when faced with a bike trail that imposes a risk that outweighs the benefit. Of course, perception of risk is flexible, largely determined by the potential for audience appreciation, otherwise known as the “show-off” factor.

These days, I mostly ride with only Sally or other less risk-appreciative geriatrics, so there’s little opportunity to show off. One would imagine that would limit opportunities for failure…but one would be wrong. Nothing creates the opportunity for a tip-over wreck like caution and lack of speed.

Riding a familiar trail in the wash, Sally and I approached a particularly tricky section with the usual trepidation; but, having ridden it more or less successfully for decades, we semi-confidently pointed our bikes up the short, steep, rock-lined bank and concentrated on steering through the maze of boulders at the top. To compound the degree of difficulty, there are a couple of stout bushes that impinge on the trail just where the trail narrows to a scant pedal width.

Employing my meager multi-tasking skills, I focused on ratcheting my pedals through the rocks while keeping my handlebars out of reach of the aggressive foliage. An opportunistic branch took advantage of my divided attention and snatched my handlebar in an attempt to lure me into its embrace. Unwilling to be so easily wooed, I veered abruptly into a rock on the opposite side of the trail which stopped me dead.

A few things cross one’s mind when a crash is imminent. The first on mine was, “Oh crap! I’m going to scratch my beautiful bike!” I managed to get my foot out of the grasp of the pedal but momentum nudged me off balance and I landed on my butt with my thigh wedged between the bike and the unforgiving rock. It would have been an ideal outcome except for the fact that my well-padded ass was sitting on top of the bike, pinning me in place. Any attempt to extricate myself would result in my carbon fiber bike frame coming in contact with the pitiless rock.

Sally, following a few feet behind, became so discombobulated by the sight, that she too tipped over. Bad language ensued as she surveyed the damage to her bike. Meanwhile, I’m lying on the rock, helplessly crying, “Help, help, help!” as my left leg was being crushed by my own prodigious weight.

The hilarity this sight might have induced went completely unappreciated as we were far from any audience, geriatric or otherwise. And Sally, uncharacteristically, failed to photograph the scene. What a waste!