The Charlie Bravo Story

I’m an idiot

Dad here; the only thing that makes me happier than telling off on someone else is telling off on myself. Since this whole Corona thing has gotten eveyone shut up inside, I’ve had the entire Arkansas River Trail mostly to myself. The trail is such that I can ride a 16, a 20, or a 25+ mile loop; I usually opt for the 20 unless I’m feeling a bit sparky.

Well, the other night I was feeling sparky. The trail starts down at the Clinton Presidential Library, and there is a very nice children’s playground nearby. This playground has some concrete tunnels for the kids to clamber around in, but as the place was deserted, I came up with the great idea of riding my bike through one of the tunnels.

This was not one of my better ideas.

Did I mention that this was a “children’s” playground? And that the interior of the tunnel was concrete, and not quite the diameter that I thought it was? Even at that, I had made it almost halfway through the dang thing and was feeling pretty salty about the situation when I was quickly reminded of a fact that I had unfortunately not considered: I had an extra two inches of styrofoam cooler on my head, my uber-cool bicycle helmet.

Some people call helmets “skid lids”; these people have no freaking idea what they’re talking about. There’s nothing slippery about them, especially when they contact the inside of a concrete culvert. My head was rudely yanked backwards, pitching me to first the left and then the right, banging my poor unprotected elbows. shoulders and knees into the unforgiving cement as I careened down the pipe like a porky pale pinball.

This was not one of my finer moments.

When I finally came to a stop, I was more than a bit rattled. Unfortunately, I was still on the pipe. I mean, IN the pipe, although drugs would better explain my next decision. I decided to ride the rest of the way out of the culvert, leaving chunks of DNA hanging on the walls of that concrete cheese grater.

I was finally able to continue on my loop, although my neck, elbows and shoulder were screaming in protest. The delay put me behind a bit, and by the time I had returned to the River Market close to where I had parked, darkness was closing in. As all the shops and restaurants were closed due to the Corvacalypse, the place was completely deserted. And dark. And vewy, vewy quiet. I know that this might be difficult to believe, but I have a hyperactive imagination; I know, I know, it’s hard to believe but it’s true. My mind was way too busy conjuring up zombies lurching out of every alleyway to realize that I was stroking towards the Minivan Gogh a good bit faster than I normally would have after a 25 mile ride.

Luckily, I didnt biff again, although I felt that I had as I heaved to a stop safely back at the van, safe at last from the walking crackheads.

It’s always a party at the Casa, even if it’s in my own mind…

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