Ow. Ow. OW!!

Here's the situation: tired after making special allowances for slacker students to take their spoken exams, biker races to relaxing session on climbing wall. A little indoor bouldering, a little goofing off, and all will be right with the world.

It's been raining, and the pavement is wet. As the biker nears the sharp left turn he has to make to get to the rec, he notices oblivious young coed opening door of luxury vehicle. To dodge a dooring, he turns early, but not unmanagably so. He cants the bike left. Big, but not unmanagable.

Did I mention it had been raining all day? Did I mention he was on the wet pavement? Oh, and did I mention his bike was rocking the touring slicks that make his daily ride such a pleasure?

He makes the turn. His wheels make deep swooshing sound-- like sliding through wet snow. Biker makes graceful, swift, 30-foot slide on pavement. He pops up, like a football receiver who just took a bone-jarring tackle. He assures the gape-jawed coed that he's just fine, thanks for asking. And he goes into the building for his climb.

But biker has road rash. He should write ROAD RASH. It runs from left knee halfway down the front of left shin. Also, biker has unshaven, hairy, Chewbacca-style legs. Gravel and dirt and hair all up in that road rash, which required extensive cleaning with brush and tweezers.

OW!

And let me reiterate..

OW!
OW!
OW!

MOTHER@#$%!!!!

Leg now debrided (as well as I could without convincing the neighbors I'm into some kind of self-torture), swabbed in Povidone and bandaged up with Telfa pads.

I will now drink the half-bottle of Ravenswood zin. It will help me feel better while I watch basketball. And it is the delicious. (Yes, I've already started...)

And I will whimper softly to myself.

Now, just my pride hurts. I HATE falling on my bike.