What is the POINT of taking 15 minutes to kit up to the tees, just to spend 10 minutes on the bike - to THEN have to spend another 15 minutes unkitting on the other end!
So - on this auspicous occasion, I sneaked out, making sure my partner - a.ka. Brigadier of Road Safety and Constricting Clothing Enforcer - don't spot me riding his gixter, with my CATs on.
Still can't figure out how it happened - but riding along, I became aware that my shoelace had come undone, and it was tangled around the gear lever.
To the point where I could not lift my foot of the lever.
Sh*t.
Approaching a red traffic light, I decided that THIS was a very minor little problem, and all I had to do, was put my right foot out when I pull up. I can then lean over, and untangle my lace and eh presto!
"Put your RIGHT foot out... Put your RIGHT foot out... Put your RIGHT foot out..."
Pulling up, my LEFT foot, as if endowed with a brain of its own, AUTOMATICALLY shot out - followed in prompt succession by the rest of my body - and then the bike.
SERVES YOU RIGHT, I managed to think momentarily, before an excruciating pain shot up my ankle as we all came crashing down on the tarmac: my LEFT FOOT, myself and the gixter.
Since I was still practically TETHERED to the bike, which was now on top of me - or more particularly, on my left foot - I was stuck. Immobilised. In the middle of the road, at a traffic light. In the middle of London.
The reaction of the motorists next to me, still brings me out in a cold sweat to this day: all four passengers were staring at me frozen, mouths agape, as if witnessing an unspeakable horror:
Great!
"Can ANYONE possibly STOP STARING and HELP ME get the bike OFF MY LEG??"
I like to believe that I sounded calm and authoritive.
The alternative, that I wailed like a desperate banshee through my helmet - doesn't bear thinking of.
Either way - it seemed to have the desired effect and suddenly three different car doors flew open - including a black cab who pulled up behind me!
Within seconds, one bike, and one DEEPLY EMBARRASSED rider was standing upright again.
"Alright love?, you hurt?" The cab driver looked me and the bike up and down curiously.
"I'm fine! Silly me." I hissed through clenched jaws, trying desperately to look and walk normal, although my foot felt as if someone tried to amputate it with a monkey wrench.
Getting back on, I prayed: "Please, please, please sweet Gixter, I'm so very, very sorry about this. PLEASE start and let me get the hell out of here."
A few blocks down, I pulled into a quiet alley, out of sight - and finally got the chance to scream in pain! F****ck that hurt!!!
I quick squizz revealed that thanks to the cushy limb material it landed on, the gixter sustained no damage.
Phew! It means I have been spared the greatest punishment: the wrath of Road Safety Brigadier. If there's no damage, there's no trace, which means I don't have tell him.
My deceit would have been perfect: for days I managed to bravely bear the pain of walking around without limping, on a foot swollen to elephantine propotions.
After day 4, I slowly started relaxing: I was home dry... he need never know what happened between me and the gixter.
Therefore, I almost suffered an apoplexy, when, sitting quitely at my desk on day 4, he suddenly leaned over, did a double take and bellowed: "You have COME OFF THE BIKE!, HAVEN'T YOU?!!"
Shit!
"I DONT BELIEVE YOU!!! YOU HAVE DROPPED MY BIKE, HAVEN'T YOU??!!"...
How on earth..?
It turns out, in the heat of my embarassment and the strain of hiding my foot injury, I didn't realise that I had grazed my elbow.
So there it was: proudly blooming red and accusing, a fresh scab. Damning evidence, sitting on my left elbow like a first prize rosette.
Not only have I been busted - but I've forfeited whatever sympathy mitigation I could have milked from my foot injury, by hiding it for four days!
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