Blog: How To Stop Traffic On I-80 (Continued)

The reader will recall that () I described an accident I had on I-80-- which actually didn’t turn out too badly since, though a bit battered, my bike and I were both in one piece, and I was able to ride home. The story continues from that point:

I dropped out of my (no longer fit-for-Goodwill) clothes, took a shower, and ministered to my knees and elbows, on all of which some skin had gone missing.  My lower back had also taken a hit when I parted company with my bike, and while no skin had been broken there, in the following days it turned all the colors of the rainbow (as well as several other colors not found in rainbows).

Back in the Lewinsky-era, some folks advised that when confronting loved ones with dire events or happenings, the greater kindness was not to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and since my scuffs and bruises could not avoid eventual detection, I elected to adopt this strategy. So when Patsy came home from work that evening and inquired about my day, our cat was treated to the following exchange:

Well, Sugar Plum, (a term of endearment I picked up from a cowboy movie) I had a little accident on my bike today.

Where was it?

On Sixth Street. A car stopped in front of me and I fell down.

What were you doing on Sixth Street?

I was looking for welding supplies.

Well, are you hurt?  (Usually this is the first question you’d expect, but my Sugar Plum has always asked her questions in a somewhat random order, and in any event from what she could see of me at that point I looked and acted perfectly fine.)

Only a little road rash. Nothing serious.

“What was it you were doing on Ninth Street again?”

“Honey, it was Sixth Street and welding supplies.”

“Oh yes, I remember.”

I was beginning to learn that this white lying business was trickier than I had anticipated, but my story did have the desired effect. Patsy wasn’t too upset, even when my multiple scrapes and colors were later revealed. 

A week after the accident, one of my elbows got infected, but a quick trip to Kaiser took care of that, and so my health was returned to normal.

By that time I also had my Seca pretty much back up to snuff and ready to participate in further adventures. But not any adventures exactly like the one described here, since my bike now sported a small stick-on clock near its gauges. 

Much later I did tell Patsy the true story, but by then the episode had occurred “long ago and in another country” as someone once wrote, and had faded to a mere footnote in the long history of our relationship—a footnote which might have read: “M had accident, nothing happened.”

© Mac McCurdy 2012