This tour is the result of a thigh laceration which required a trip to the Emergency Department and several sutures. To be clear:  the tour didn’t result in the laceration, the laceration resulted in the tour. It’s weird how things work that way.

It started out as a regular ride over to North Liberty and back, just me attempting to overcome my congenital laziness and stay in shape. That is, a shape that isn’t round. By 2020, I hadn’t taken a tour in twelve years. My new job, which started after my 2008 trip, required 10-12 hour days, and I didn't have any time or energy left at the end of the day to plan or think about a tour.

Because I hadn’t taken any extended rides, or even overnighters, I didn’t do much maintenance on the bike I love so much. Consequently, the brakes started wearing out. This wasn’t, however, a complete and sudden failure; it was more gradual, an insidious change to which I simply accommodated. If I needed to slow down or stop, I’d just start braking earlier. I didn’t even realize they were wearing out, I just thought that’s as good as my brakes could be.

It isn’t difficult to see where this is going. As I was turning a sharpish corner to cross a street, I wasn’t able to brake in time and ended up running into the median’s curb. I wasn’t going very fast, but as the bike fell to the left, the chainring somehow raked my left thigh. 

Of course, the first thing I did after I bounced back up was to look around to see if anyone saw me (really, it was barely a fall, more of an “I’m going to lean my bike over for a second”). I was hoping the car with two young guys in it, the ones who were coming up to the stop sign and were now a mere twenty yards away, had cataracts, or were too drunk to notice me, but they braked, then popped out of their car, urgently asking “Are you okay?!?!?!” 

“Oh, yeah,” I laughed out loud, “I’m FINE!”

“Are you SURE? You’ve… uh… got some blood on you.”

I looked down at my thigh, then back at them.

“Ohhhh…   Yeah….     I’m okay,” perhaps a little less convincing this time considering the shredded skin and blood dripping down my leg. 

They gave each other a quick, anxious glance, then hesitantly got back in their car and continued on their way. Looking back, I wish I’d jumped up, pumped my fist in the air yelling “YEAH!!!”, then pedaled away, as if that’s EXACTLY what I’d intended to do. Perhaps something to consider the next time I have a near-accident like that one.

Because there wasn’t THAT much blood, but mainly because I’m not very smart, I considered finishing the ride, and continued on for about thirty seconds, but the blood dripping down my leg argued against further progress. The only thing I had to stanch the flow was a bandana, an item I strongly encourage everyone to carry for its variety of uses, but it wasn’t working very well. 

I rode the two miles back to my house, where I cleaned up the wound.

There’s a saying in medicine, “The physician who treats himself has a fool for a patient.” The gist is that it’s generally a bad idea for any medical provider to treat himself, which is usually excellent advice. 

So, while I thought the laceration clearly needed suturing, I waited for Heather to come home in order to get another opinion. 

Upon her arrival, I was sitting out on the back porch. We exchanged our usual greetings… “How was your day?” and so on.

“What should we do for dinner?” she asked.

“I dunno. Salmon?” We chatted a minute about that, then I said,

“Before we start fixing dinner, I have a question for you. I was wondering if you could take a look at my leg and tell me if you think it needs stitches.”

She saw my leg, rolled her eyes, and gave me the look reserved for the chronically stupid, a look I see on a regular basis, although, of course, never when she’s looking at me. [cough, cough]  

“Of COURSE it needs sutures. Get in the car. We’re going to Urgent Care.” 

___________

So how did THAT lead to a bike tour?

I love my bike, but had been shamefully neglecting it. It just seemed like something that would always be there, unchanging, like the Rocky Mountains. As certain as the fact that a broken spoke is always going to be on the cassette side of your rear wheel. As assuredly as the smoke detector batteries will only alert you they're low at 2:00 in the morning.  As perpetual as the Chicago Cubs being unable to win a championship (that might be the best example because they did win one after a 108-year hiatus).

Realizing I’d been a terrible bike owner, not only did I get some new brakes, I performed a complete overhaul including tires, a chain, cables, and a number of other items. 

Once it had new brakes I realized, “These things are GREAT! I can actually STOP now.” Then I thought, “In fact, I’ll bet they’d even stop a bike with loaded panniers.” Thinking about loaded panniers started some reminiscing, and memories of how fantastic my previous trips were. Those memories progressed to how great a trip NOW would be. This was at the end of 2019 when the world was on fire, epidemically speaking, and while no one could travel safely, there was no reason whatsoever for me not to take a bike trip, especially if I was self sufficient. 

Things started rolling and, as a result of a thigh wound, I took my first tour in twelve years. I've been taking them annually since then, so I think a scar that looks like teeth marks is worth the trade off.

Heads up:  the pictures in the post after this one show various stages of the wound, so if you're squeamish about blood you might want to skip that one and go on to the one following it.