I laid there in disbelief, stunned at what had just transpired.  It hadn’t happened particularly fast – I’d had time to digest the situation, a micro-second to challenge my conclusion and then it was all over.  Except the crying.  And the cursing.

This was not your ordinary adventure.  Careful planning over the past several moments had led to this remarkable trek I found myself engaged in.  I’d departed fully laden with enough food, liquids and clothing to survive anything the modern post-industrial highway interchange location might politely request of me over the course of the next five 9-hour periods.  I was prepared, I thought, for everything.  Except this.

It hadn’t always been the plan.  I was suffering the results of my injuries incurred during my brief stint as a professional soccer player in the tournament this weekend.  Mt. Pleasant U8, parents vs. kids – not exactly a walk in the Arts Club field (more of an amble really).  We’d firmly crushed the hopes and dreams of our progeny but not without paying the price.  Several of my team mates bore the marks of precious fluids spilled across them, arguably the unavoidable result of carrying ones morning coffee while relentlessly taunting children on the battlefield.  After repelling a particularly aggressive attack by the shorties, I discovered I’d twisted my knee leaving me with what I expect will be a permanent and disfiguring limp.

This twisted knee obviously meant my planned solo trek across the harsh and often unpredictable environs of freshly paved urban bicycle path was in jeopardy.  The family was clear in their attempts to stop me, “stop whining you sissy” and “just shut-up and go already” being the clearest indicators of their poorly masked concern.  It’s okay my lovelies – I know what you really meant.  In the words of a not-very-famous offspring of Walt Disney (the man, not the terrifying corporation) who’s name I’ve conveniently left out, It’s easy to make a decision when you know what your values are”.  Thus, with my sense of pointless purpose and commitment to ego-inflating clear, I began packing my things.

With the practiced stealth of a bull in a china shop, I snuck out a little more than an hour after sunrise.  My adventure would require traversing the violent and dangerous main roads around astoundingly polite and accommodating morning commuters – a challenge I prepared myself for by fussing about with my clipless pedals.  After no more than 3 lanes of hurtling steel stopped to allow me across unscathed, I shifted into high gear and found myself quickly pedaling out, a clear sign I need taller gearing.  It may have been slightly, or a lot, down hill.

Having survived the dangers of the urban road-fauna – bumps, splits and a pair of bus traps – I had only one left turn before the hazard-factor ramped up as I entered the pathway network.  Stymied by a red light, I waited, coiled with the force of a discarded pen spring, to pedal my way in to the awaiting hell.

Finally I was on the path.  I’d entered the dragon’s den of flawlessly smooth pavement, and was immediately crowded by the crush of the other commuter.  He was coming towards me, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion.  He looked shaken up, like he was trying to get his bearings, such is the nature of this perfidious pavement-beast.  As I sailed past him at high rate of speed that was definitely not above the posted limit of 20km/h, I heard the familiar click click of his clipless shoes latching into their pedals.

At first it didn’t register as anything, then that little flag – the one in the back of your mind that says hey!  something….well…something! – popped up and I paused (mentally of course as I wouldn’t stop doing for thinking) for a moment before everything came rushing all at once.  If he’s clipping in, that means he was unclipped and this is not a normal place to be unclipped added to the fact he appeared somewhat shaken up and a little stunned and there’s all this mud in front of…MUD!

I grabbed both binders as if they were made of flower petals and managed to scrub off enough speed to make the effort a complete waste of time.  There it was – a solid (by coverage, not consistency) layer of mud stretching the width of McKnight, across both lanes of the traitorous path.  As this was the precise location I’d managed to break my wrist at in November (with less mud I might add), I was not shocked at the presence of the mud, but by the volume.  I hadn’t anticipated having all escape cut off.

I dare not move as I coasted through the lubricous mass, thinking only of getting to the other side.  The back end, despite being perfectly upright, began to drift to the right and then, as with my stunned-rider-clipping-in conclusion, the ground suddenly rushed up to meet me.  With enthusiasm.  A poetic string of invectives escaped my lungs in a gentle bellow.

So it was that I found myself laying in the mud with, I presume, a much angrier version of the stunned rider look I’d just witnessed.  I am certain that he heard me fall and I will wonder for minutes to come why he didn’t try to warn me.  Perhaps he wanted to share the experience.

In truth, I’m thankful it wasn’t worse – a couple of scrapes and bruises, some more character for the Rescue Bike, nothing more.  I’d been chased and had chased followed enthusiastically other adventurers through that spot earlier this season.  It could have been a pull-up with real consequences.  Nobody wants to get a pedal in the kidney first thing Monday.  I’ve never said It’s just not Monday without being punctured by someone’s bicycle.  Hey Adam, can you stab me in the appendix with your drops? 

The first time it fooled me, I didn’t know better.  This time I have no excuse – shame on me.  Clearly the lesson is “find another route”.  You’ll excuse me now while I find the polysporin.