Originally published April 30, 1981
Mild Spring weather has brought out the boasting bicyclists, bragging incessantly about their personal records and speedy scenic experiences. Jealous of their fitness and naturally disinclined to study, I appropriated a bike in an attempt to follow their narrow tracks.
Beginning the bicycle journey from campus, one must traverse the Omaha Street Underpass, the dark midpoint of which concealed a barely visible fisherman slouching motionless at creek’s edge. As I proceeded with caution, he unleashed a suddenly energetic backstroke and delivered a stinging lash across my back. By the time I reached the light and emitted the first cry of pain, he had retrieved the barbed lure from my neck fat with a delighted cackle.
Preferring the trickle of blood down my spine to confrontation or the confusion of my studies, I continued the excursion. The ride went well for a distance, lulling me back to sensations nearing happiness and relaxation, until I spotted the dog—big and ugly, with a fresh kill hanging from its jaws. Evidently, my leg looked more appetizing. The chase commenced, and I held my own until the disc golf course, where a tournament-weight Frisbee caught me by the mullet and dragged me backward off the bike. I must have looked unworthy of further attention when I hit the ground, because the dog didn’t touch me, as far as I could tell.
Upon regaining consciousness, I dragged the bike out of the creek—only because the contraption did not belong to me—and started walking it back to campus, until I spotted the dog, blocking and staining the path of retreat with a gaunt, shrieking disc golfer. The audible carnage left me no choice but to remount the bike and flee even farther from home, scanning the horizon for climbable trees in the event of another pursuit.
Eyes averted from the direction of travel, I felt a bump in the path and glanced downward, displeased to see a sunning prairie rattlesnake entwining itself in the rear spokes. Another rolling dismount, followed this time by a hundred-meter scream-dash, distanced me far from the path, where I stopped to examine my extremities for new fang marks or bite sites, ostensibly allowing the serpent time to vacate or expire.
Over the next hour or so, an occasional passerby or a weekend crowd would gather round the abandoned bike to point, grimace, laugh, or capture a photograph, leading me to believe that the reptile remained. I crept toward the exhibit armed with a lengthy branch, which I used to prod the scaly tangle, much like I had jabbed my roommate just a few hours earlier during the weekend wellness check.
A comparable lack of response from the snake prompted reluctant closer inspection, revealing an undeserved chain-link-and-cogwheel beheading worthy of submission as the overdue mechanical design project I should have stayed home to address. Extricating what remained of the poor animal’s head from the mechanism and unwinding the body from the spokes took just enough time to draw the attention of a county animal control officer, who placed me under arrest for cruelty to wildlife. A display of torn clothing and road rash convinced her to settle instead for an expensive protected-species citation as well as a venomous-waste disposal fee.
Thus reprimanded and fined, I righted the bike and teetered away from the scene of the crime, determined to get my money’s worth from the ride. After crossing Canyon Lake Drive to the tune of many car horns and hollered insults to my admittedly questionable judgment and intelligence, I entered Sioux Park, where I encountered a herd of the most dangerous of animals: portly, middle-aged joggers waddling at glacial rates from one side of the path to the other, taking at least two lateral lurches for every halting step forward, rendering my calls of “on your left,” “on your right,” and “on your foot!” inaudible with desperate gasps for thin air.
The sudden stream of humanity reeling in every dimension, compounded with a number of signs indicating our proximity to Meadowbrook Country Club, caused me to miss a “Yield” marker where the stagger path intersected a golf-cart through-way. The oversight resulted in a glancing conflict with a pair of little old ladies in a quietly electric and nimble rental cart, fresh from the clubhouse garage and raring to reach the first tee, a goal likely not achieved that day.
The initial impact caused no immediate injuries or damage, but the fright altered their course from the cart path, down-slope into an icy water hazard. I stuck around only long enough to ensure that their heads remained visible above the murky surface, verifying their ability to breath by the volume of the screams for help.
Exiting the park apace for the return trip, I picked up some speed on a straightaway, feeling pretty lucky that I had managed to avoid blowing a tire on all the glass adorning the path. Home base in sight, I broke into a big smile in anticipation of the much-vaunted biker’s high, at which point a fat Spring fly buzzed my gaping maw and lodged in my throat, causing an involuntary choke/swallow reflex reminiscent of a recently unannounced thermodynamics quiz.
As I gagged on the unsavory aftertaste, a familiar shape stepped out from behind a tree to thread an old fishing pole through the spokes of my front tire, thus ending bike day with a final ride to the pavement. As the cackling non-fisherman departed, a skinny bloody guy wearing torn clothing limped over and dropped a misshapen, dog-bitten, tournament-weight Frisbee edge-first on my noggin, a firm reminder of the true purpose of bicycle riding: to sell more helmets.
My recommendation for your next ride: stretch those under-used muscles for an hour or so and then stay home. Your skin will thank you.