The friendly bicycle repair man.
Usually I have pretty good luck, but this week it took a turn in the wrong direction. I was riding home late the other night up 8th Avenue and my bicycle got a flat tire. Somewhere around 38th Street a small metal spring with a very sharp point got lodged in the rear tire and all the air came hissing out. I had to walk it home about 20 blocks. The next day I hiked over to 9th Avenue where I found a great bike shop that fixed my bicycle in about five minutes flat (no pun intended). They were quick, inexpensive and friendly, I had the brakes adjusted, the flat repaired, the tires inflated and everything was just great. Or so I thought.
About 10 minutes later on my way home, I was stopping right in the middle of Times Square and I hit the brakes. I guess I really wasn't totally prepared for the brakes to work so well. I went head over heels right over the handlebars and landed flat on my right arm in the middle of the street. My newly fixed bike came tumbling down right on top of me. I hopped right up and told the few people who asked, "I'm fine, I'm fine." Turns out I wasn't so fine. After a very painful night's sleep, I called the doctor first thing this morning and spent a very long day at the doctor's office. I waited at the radiology department downstairs getting four or five x-rays and then there was, of course, a very long wait for the orthopedist as well. I was smart to anticipate that you always have to wait at the doctor's office and I brought along Peter Hedges excellent new book, The Heights. After hours and hours of waiting around I found out that I have a fractured right elbow. It's not the worst fracture in the world, but it sure hurts like hell. It looks like I won't be riding my bike very much in the near future.
(I think it's time for a roll call. How about some comments from some of my regular blog readers. If you haven't spoken up before, now's your chance. Surely someone looks at these posts.)