CALL ME SNAKE

My brother-in-law took a nasty spill on his bicyle today, hitting a patch of ice and falling hard. He ended up getting a number of stitches. It reminded me of a bad fall I had as a teenager that sent me to the hospital, with half my skin scraped off. I’ve gotten hit by cars several times as well, which is never a good idea. The older you get, the harder the pavement feels. I got “doored” a couple of years ago a block from my home, and that felt none too good. I think my right shoulder’s still smarting from the impact with the door and my left shoulder’s still smarting from the impact with the street.

But a year or so ago — not to make my brother-in-law feel worse — I actually had a good fall, one that you might even call fun. Here’s the story: I was riding at night on a bike path through Danehy Park in Cambridge (on my way to the movies), when I hit a patch of “black ice.” I was moving pretty fast and, as a result, things started happening pretty fast as well. My bike slid out from under me and I hit the ice at a pretty good clip, sliding smoothly for 20 to 30 feet until I gradually came to a stop. I got up and rode off, no worse for the wear. That’s the kind of fall that bikers dream about. I’d never challenge Lance Armstrong to any kind of road race, but in all his vast cycling experience, I doubt he’s ever had a better fall than that. (If you’re listening Lance, and think you can top that, by all means speak up. Otherwise, I’m going to claim victory, at least in this one odd category of cycling competition.)