Or, the case of the post-halloween bike girl (black and) blues.
In my situation, it involves a Volkswagen, a bike, a girl and a lot of bruises.
One week to the day after my run in with the satanic sedan, I was minding my own business, in the bike lane, rolling along to run errands downtown, when a Golf (helloooo, isn’t there a special Golf-owners’ respect or something out there?!!?) pulls out in front of me, causing me to swerve, brake a gaaaaaah! Go flying over the handlebars.
So, somebody please explain to me how, in over 30 years of riding a bike, I can have two face-plants in one week…
And, this week, it’s painful as hell. It’s a mess. It’s a swollen, non-bendy where legs should bend, ripped up flesh torn up muscles and ligaments mess.
Although, I can say that, after I got done yelling at him, not only could I guarantee the Golf driver would never pull out anywhere without looking in his mirror first, I could also pretty certainly assume he made a beeline home for a new clean pair of underwear tout de suite.
So, my conclusion is thus regarding the trinity of bike ickness (if you count the stick that stuck a few weeks back): I blame it all on Jason.
He was the last one to work on my bikes, and he sucks. So, from now on, no matter how implausible it may seem, anything bad that happens regarding bikes is Jason’s fault.
Kinda’ like many moons back, back, back in the day when a certain other tall, skinny boy found himself on the other end of my like list after taking up with some scary chick who later turned out to be psycho, thus making me feel better and spawning the phrase “bad idea Jen” to explain away a truly dumb move that probably should never have been made in the first place, I hereby coin, “Bad idea Jason” to describe things I never should have tried.