Riden like Biden


Riden like Biden


If my neck wasn’t stiff I would have shaken my head. The news alert that had just popped up on my phone yesterday stated that President Biden fell off his bike. “That guy—such a copier. Always trying to steal my thunder,” I said this to no one around. According to the report, as he dusted himself off, he said, “I’m good” to the crowd of reporters and concerned onlookers.

I beat Biden by a day. That’ll teach him. (Well, technically two consecutive days.) Not 24 hours before Biden’s fall, a construction worker nearby asked if I was okay as he reached out his hand to help me up. I dusted myself off and humbly took his hand and said, “Aw, this is nothing, you should have seen me yesterday when I fell into a cactus.” He emitted a generous, empathetic groan.

I’m still picking out cacti needles. I titled that not-yet-written story, “Fail from Graze” because it was more of a graze than a complete fall-all-the-way-down-and-into said cactus. Accuracy is important.

Like the president, I too have completely fallen off my bike simply trying to dismount. You feel really dumb doing that. That’s just really embarrassing. I always say, if you’re gonna fall, there’s got to be a good and dramatic (impressive) reason. Day before yesterday was kind of dramatic. Not exactly impressive.

To be honest, I was kind of “flying” on my new road bike (it’s SO LIGHT!) because I was running a little late riding back from the beach. I was less than a mile from home and passing through a construction site with an approved temporary, designated pedestrian/bike path which goes under the 5 Freeway and on the other side of a wall away from traffic. Super safe! Zipping through this completely dark tunnel, I apparently chose the wrong side of the designated lane. Just as my eyes met the line of sunshine at the edge of darkness, my neck met the yellow tape + orange cones “clothesline” tightly strung across the pavement. It dragged me or I dragged it. A little of both. For a while. It was definitely movie-worthy.  My second statement to the nice construction guy was, “I thought this was an approved path,” to which he pointed a few feet over to my left, “It’s over there.”


I didn’t ride my bike yesterday, or today. In fact, I haven’t made my bed for the past two days. That’s how sore I am. I have a headache, scrapes, and bruises. A cracked helmet + pride but thank God, not a cracked head. Not one broken bone. I’m kinda bouncy.

I’ll rest. Until I can get back on the saddle, I’ll just be here, biden my time. I’m good.




**THE “LOST” JACKET METAPHOR: If you read my previous blog post Jagged Little Coast, you might remember that I belly-ached over losing my jacket. I was certain–absolutely sure—resolute—that I had left the house in Portland with that jacket either on my person or in my bags. I would have sworn an oath. I knew, a shadow of no doubt that the beloved new green REI jacket was somewhere lost along the jagged Oregon to California coast. All the futile fear and loathing and consternation and brain-racking and regret and sadness and confusion were for naught. It’s still in Portland, it never left its secure spot.

This lesson is caught (thanks, God).