More From David Nord

Here are my latest thoughts about riding roads with the minor frustrations, and sometimes major ones from dangers encountered. Writing with a humorous twist allows us to make biking all the more enjoyable. Its content is universal to all who seriously train. Use it if you want, and if not, enjoy it for yourself.

Perils of a Safari Peloton
By David W. Nord

As with all aspects of life, we must deal with disappointment or disaster, re-energize, and move forward. If one does not wish to spin in one place, he or she must re-engage gears of purpose, learning to move from frustration to facilitation, to explore one’s inner roads of meaning. This writing provides us with a practical lesson in levity, which lightens one’s load.

From the moment you click into your pedals to the moment you peel off your gloves, road hazards perceive the instinctive provocations far-off, and are ready to champion their turf to take you out. Whether you are tired of leg or Armstrong, all of us are prone to pavement pummeling, and all of us are equalized on flats (of tires that is). Take for example, the perilous mailbox. Our mundane thoughts only resign them to being Uncle Sam’s benign servants for bills and blessings. Yet, in our road warrior mentality, we see through the disguise of their inconspicuous demeanor.

In reality, mailboxes are predators, not the spectator fans we had hoped would line our Tour de Ditch. They hold their armored, rhino heads high into downwind biker scents, anticipating instinctive collision. They are keenly aware of our approach, even for lack of good eyesight. Jaws open and jaws shut matter-of-factly, chewing the cud of private and public pulp. Metal skin quivers both flies and fears to flight. Notorious for being in aphrodisiac demand, they delight in territorial defense. They stamp a single foot and wave the red flag horn, warning encroachers from a distance. Lead cyclists always rightly point them out, as wildlife guides on a safari peloton. Though their metal mouths are toothless, mailbox mandibles are capable of gashing a biker’s forearm, and impervious heads are proficient in butting the unaware to the ground. A helmet slightly down tipped, or a shoulder sideways swayed signal weakness to their beady eyes. Thud! Skirmish over; the rhino-box takes to munching grass again at its stone-toed foot. As a bystander, one might notice the lightning bite or the imperceptible lunge if caught on motion-capture cameras. Bandaged or bruised without and within, we struggle again to stand upon the feet of dignity beside a derailed chain of intent.

Are you skeptical that we are both hunter and prey on every ride, on every road? There are indeed many dangers lurking on our random expeditions. Most roadways seem innocent on approach, and the dangers are difficult to detect, until it is too late. Venomous asphalt bites at tires in innumerable ways, draining the life from their rubber lungs. Glistening teeth of paranha-glass dart about in the open shallows of mirage hot tar, tearing at anything intrepid. Indigenous potholes evade swerving riders, reverberating rims with impartial, snapping mouths. Wire-wasps pulse with fiery barbs near entrances to underground spool-hives, for a chance to defend the wire-haired queen. Chisel-barbed, nail-bugs scurry erratically, experts in the art of acupuncture. Meandering sloth-stones inadvertently migrate into wheel’s trajectories over the duration of weeks, to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They are as dumb as, well…as dumb as rocks. Not far down the road, a punctured tire staggers in nausea and exhales its last breath with a rider’s shout of “Flat”! Everyone comes to an apprehensive stop in the eerie silence when a predator stalks, fingers cautiously exploring the circumferences of tires for evidences of teeth or claw marks.

I once witnessed a rabid, fluorescent-orange highway construction sign suddenly consume a distracted recumbent rider in a thunderous gulp! And when the rider’s cloud of delirium dissipated, our laughter echoed throughout the farmland for miles. And I freely admit to my own preoccupation while riding, in having fallen fifty feet from a mountain cliff in the Andes. I had not perceived the brown-throated erosion crouching at road’s edge, which had lain in wait for years to feed. Harrowing landslides across mountain bike trails have swept all but faith down their gravel slopes off precipices. I rejected the thoughts to turn back, but they did cross my mind more easily than I navigated the cascading sea of sand. Another bump in the road laid a repulsive bloated horse partially blocking passage beside a five hundred foot drop. That encounter called upon technical riding skills to avoid exchanging mounts. My armpits didn’t smell so bad after that ride. We all as roadies and off-roadies are subjected to, or pick our own punishment in pursuit of the peace, which cycling provides. It is therein that the tradeoff is equitable in truly living.

Some species of risk are themselves endangered by street sweepers, tar trucks, pest control services, scavengers and do-gooders. But please don’t establish a Save The Sloth-Stone Foundation anytime soon; rendering road shoulders protected game preserves, and cycling illegal. Circumnavigate these perils, if you can, and resist being the squeaky wheel at your local County Public Works authority. And at all costs, avoid being victimized by the horn-harassing, bumper-bullying, mechanical-grillas driven by Neanderthals of a different club. Of those I know all too well. It’s a jungle out there, so follow the path of wisdom by Robert Frost in the last line from his poem entitled, The Road Not Taken. “I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

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