A Tale of Two Tales

Sometimes a story is more fun with a little embellishment. I had a bit of an accident on my bike this last Sunday, and I’d like to try a little experiment. I’m going to tell the story of my battered body in two accounts. It’s your job to figure out which is true, and which is not. Also keep in mind that I may never let anyone know which account is which. It just may remain one of the great mysteries of our time.



Account 1

As the afternoon slipped slowly into evening, I was still riding my bike. It had been three days so far, trying to cross Oregon’s formidable Cascade Range, and I was beginning to lose my nerve. It was not like me to lose anything but patience. My steely nervous system was a byproduct of my rugged, often extreme lifestyle, and not subject to the wear and tear of daily life. But after seventy-two straight hours of cycling, anything can happen, even to an amazing man such as myself.

Evening’s cooler air was refreshing, invigorating, but as I began to get my twenty-second wind, another kind of wind began. Real wind. It started as a light breeze, nothing to even think twice about. But as the black clouds began to sneak into my golden-blue evening light, I felt the birth of a gale. This portion of the mountains is known for its extreme changes in amplitude, a fact I was well aware of, and one for which I was prepared. However, despite my extensive training, the gathering wind at my face not only slowed my ascent of each uphill, but virtually halted my plan to coast down the downhill portions of this tumultuously treacherous terrain. I was losing steam fast, and there was no turning back. You see, the road had been blocked off to automobile traffic because of an extreme landslide, which not only necessitated my mode of transportation, but was the real reason I was riding so hard.

In a small village nestled in the folds of the Cascades, little Gertrude Twitter (those who know her call her Trudy) had been waiting for the postal service to deliver her insulin, a delivery made impossible by the recent landslides. I became a one-man postal service, and neither sleet nor snow nor the impending doom of a storm was going to sway me from my noble end: to deliver the goods and save another life.

My ally, good weather, would soon be overpowered by the awesome force of black clouds, wind, and torrential rain-pour. I was only a few miles from Trudy’s village, but my luck had begun to turn sour as layer upon layer of black clouds rolled in like some kind of thing that rolls a lot. I shifted quickly, methodically into my easiest gear, and stood up as I climbed what should have been the last hill of my arduous journey, flexing my impressive quads with each stroke of the pedals. I knew I couldn’t keep it up forever, but I could also see little Trudy’s face in my mind, her eyes screwed up as she fought back the tears as she imagined nobody would becoming with her life-saving medicine. Tears which had formed from the incredible wind in my eyes began to mix with tears from the dust that was being stirred and blown into my eyes which mixed with tears from the sheer mental strain I was under which in turn mixed with tears from the pain in my worn legs which ultimately mixed with tears from knowing Trudy was waiting, waiting, waiting for her knight in shining biker-spandex to come and save her. Also there were tears from the mountain onion farm I was slowly passing. It was harvest time, and the onions were being minced on site.

As I rounded the last bend, I could see Trudy’s village squatting on the mountainside. I made my final push toward the village when I saw something move in the corner of my eye. I whipped my head back just in time to see the herd of elk closing in on my position while the rain began to dump bucket on me. I couldn’t go any faster, and in hopeless agony I watched as hundreds, nay, thousands of soaked elk blasted past me. I knew it was a matter of time before I was trampled to death amid the cacophonous roar of the elk and thunder. This situation dictated my next move, a daring move indeed. I leapt from my bicycle, just as it was destroyed in a sickening crunch, and I landed on top of one of the younger elk, riding it easily into town. Caribou-riding was also part of my training, which turned out to be exactly the same as elk-riding. I steered my wild steed into the village, hopped gracefully to the ground and began shouting, “Trudy! Trudy! I’ve come to save you!”

Trudy’s mother came rushing out of a nearby thatched hut, screaming at her two dogs, and also for me to come quickly. I sprinted into the house, taking care to remove my wet shoes, and spotted Trudy lying quietly in bed, apparently at death’s door. I flung my helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, mouth-guard, shin-guards, and shoulder-pads to the dirt floor of the hut, and pulled out the refrigerated cylinder which held Trudy’s salvation. Tearing open the container, I quickly read the instructions several times, at which time I grabbed the syringe, plunging it into the exact right location. Immediately Trudy looked me in the eyes and said, “My hero!” I told her she needed not thank me, and that I must be on my way. On my way out the door, as I looked back at Trudy’s beaming face, I tripped over one of the dogs, landing on my right side, which injured my foot, thigh, and shoulder all at once. I quickly got up, covering my embarrassed face with my hand, bade them a final farewell, and limped out of town as the storm disappeared and sunset’s rays peaked their last from under the receding storm-clouds.

And that’s how I injured most of my right side.



Account 2

I went mountain-biking on an easy trail fairly close to home with a couple friends. I was following too close to one of the friends, when he made an unexpected move. I tried not to hit him with my bike and hit a tree instead. We were less than a quarter-mile from the parking lot.

And that’s how I injured most of my right side.



Now seriously, nobody will ever know the truth. Each story has its own merit grounded in reality. Tough call for most. Regardless, I messed up my right foot, quad and shoulder. The first day I had trouble walking, and now I’ve traded my inability to walk with a gnarly set of bruises and scrapes. But really, which account is true? Which story do you believe? The world may never know, and I’ll certainly never tell.