On Humility

After living in biketerror for about a decade, riding now, in Chicago, in the winter, makes me feel like a badass.  It gives me a confidence that I've never known.  I can't find my inhaler and the air on colder nights makes my lungs scream and revolt, but riding in 15 degree weather (I'm leaving the wind chill out of this) has a way of reminding me how many times before I have been wrong about my limits and that alone is enough motivation to keep pedaling.  It makes me feel like I have secret that has something to do with grit and reckless abandon.

And so I ride.

And so I fall.  Fell.  Once.  Finally.

On my way home from Weegee's a delightful, semi-swanky, old fashioned bar where I drank an Aviation and a Bocci Ball and played shuffleboard, the wind picked up and it started snowing, which only increased my feelings of being tough and capable. A pair of bikers on the other side of the street held up mittened fists of solidarity to me and shouted, "Yeah!" while I waved politely and shouted, "Hullo!"  Yeah guys, we're in this together and we are conquering winter, one block at a time.

I cruised down Milwaukee, cut through back streets, coasted past the park, and then about 10 seconds from my front door, I hit a patch of something and went down hard on my left side and wound up in the middle of the intersection, me and my bike all tangled up like lovers.  And like lovers, we laid there for a minute still, breathless, feeling humbled and thankful and dazed, before we eventually righted ourselves and realized how much damage we'd done to each other.

I was so relieved there were no cars and no late-night dog walkers to see my fall, though Tim pointed out that maybe I should have wanted somebody to be around, in case I'd been knocked out somehow.  That hadn't even occurred to me.  Being self-conscious was more at the forefront of my thinking than being unconscious.  I will spend some time considering this.