The first time you feel invincible going fast, un-rhythmic, double pull brakes and steel rims darting' in and out, a new found source of adrenaline until you hit the rear bumper of a car and are flying through the air. Incredibly you land on your feet standing in the middle of Washington Circle. Fear quickly turns to relief and then amusement-- the novice is still in action. You pedal on, bolstered by the close call, feeling like it's all a game, which it is in a sense, although the full scope of outcomes are far beyond your grasp.

A few months later your skills have increased. Your equipment has gotten lighter. You are learning to use your body. You carve paths fluently emerging from exhaust filled muddy tangles of auto angst to smooth uncluttered lanes sparkling with sun enhanced detail. You ride farther every day tightening angles and splitting complicated mazes of people and metal, smoothly so no one even knows you were there until they feel the quiet breeze in your wake. Each day you gradually increase the pace and then head home from work complete, riding through a standstill of traffic on a clogged up M Street, between the idle cars, speed constant, adjusting and contorting your body to dodge the array of mirrors-- Maybe a car moves or maybe you miscalculate. Some glass catches you in the eye and just like that the fun is over. You are the center of attention. Strangers stare down at your bloody face, concerned, while the majority of cars maneuver around another "dumb ass courier" as they head home.

This time there is an ambulance ride. One of the EMS. guys u-locks your bike at the intersection of M and Wisconsin and the siren blasting vehicle heads to the GW. Emergency room. Five hours later you are released with a mild concussion and twelve stitches above the eye-- just above the eye. You are lucky. Though your bruised face is causing the eye to shut, there is no damage to your vision.

The next morning the eye is dark purple-black and completely closed, but the other one is fine-- 50 percent vision-- with the Oakleys on no one can tell. You head back onto the streets, needing to earn, a battered warrior ready for more. But when the traffic approaches, the video game-like play of the action has shifted. The blind rookie bravado is in the process of being tapered.

Several years later the rider has contoured his shadeless rookie charging to a more gradient arsenal of moves and speeds. Trial and error plus a vivid recall of the pain and embarrassment of early mishaps has created a wide range of responses with thousands of miles ridden and a growing muscular and technical skill. The desire to push for more speed continues.

The courier has started racing sanctioned USCF. road events on the weekends. Now when working he picks his spots and the chance to dive into a corner is an inviting one, a chance to practice an important racing skill, besides that it simply feels good. The rubber locks the road and a flexible yet firm body uses centrifugal force to hold it together at what looks like a dangerous angle, a big arcing whoosh then tilting back up into yet another corridor. Like a gleaming rotating tilt-a-whirl type amusement park ride, a well executed corner can be a minor rush.

It is a crisp sunny fall day, the work flowing, job after job dispatched seamlessly, the rider in a constant steady mode, a day when conditions, the earnings, and the body are all hitting the mark-- a day to be savored.

Coming down Ninth Street, Rider 140 is holding five packages headed to the hill, building speed on the slight descent, turning left on Penn and then right on Seventh, he's rolling all the intersections and gaining big ring momentum. He crosses the Mall with the monuments and Capitol edging into his periphery, turning left on Independence and passing the Air and Space Museum. Six lanes on the wide road and not a car in sight.

After a long stretch without slowing, a natural rhythm kicks in. The breathing and the muscles are in union and the bike just happens to be going twenty-five miles an hour. If a car, a red light, or a distraction breaks this rhythm, the rider must call an audible, slow down, or come to a complete stop, which means re-starting this whole process from scratch. This is why couriers don't like to stop. It means being taken out of the moment. Having the precise rhythmic flow altered and tampered with is to be avoided, preferably gracefully and safely.

Independence Avenue heading east, setting up for a right turn onto Fourth Street SW. All is clear. There is nothing but sun drenched road. A few last pedal strokes before locking into a crouch and angling through the intersection. The entire body is a shock absorber allowing the rubber to hold contact across shifts and shimmies of the pavement. Midway through the turn a horrible sensation-- the bike is sliding on motor oil, a big patch, road-colored, not something that can be skipped across. There is a jolt of adrenaline, followed by a split second of clarity where usually a crash is calmly and miraculously avoided. When it is clear this is not happening, the rider prepares for the crash, hoping for the least amount of damage.

The bike slides out on the oil like it is a patch of ice. As it hits the road it seems to accelerate beyond the speed it was already traveling. The first realization is of being conscious-- alive-- accessing the damage is tricky and it is bad to move too soon. Concerned strangers stare down, sidetracked from their business, like an odd mix of angels and vultures, they want to help but no one is sure what to do. He is bleeding from the back of the head. The legs seem to move but the body is pretty sore. Instinct wants to get up as quickly as possible, shake off the road rash, straighten the handlebars, and pedal away, thanking the helpful citizens and leaving them with a good story to tell upon return to the office, but this is not to be a quick getaway.

The rider gets out of the road as strangers drag the twisted handlebar bent wheeled road bike to the curbside. It is decision time... go to the hospital or not go to the hospital, should an ambulance be called... contact the courier company so they can retrieve the packages. It is always surreal because though everything has come to an abrupt stop, there is a new somewhat fuzzy reality confronting the crash victim who is trying to inventory his pain.

After a ridiculous conversation / confrontation with the ambulance driver about whether or not the cyclist wants a ride to the hospital (remembering a previous lofty ambulance bill he repeatedly answers "Of course I want a ride, but I can't afford it" to which the driver again says "Do you want a ride yes or no?") ultimately it seems easier to walk away and find a cab, better yet, the Metro is nearby at 600 Maryland.

Locking the bike up and dropping into the cool Metro escalator, the street drama recedes although the arm and head pain are very present. The injured man pays his fare and takes a seat on the commuter filled train... just another bloody-headed messenger using public transit. No one says a word. Next stop: Foggy Bottom. GW. Hospital.

Six hours later after lots of emergency room waiting and a bunch of x-rays, the man is back on the street with a broken arm and a stitched up head. The city has quieted down slightly as he makes his way back to the Metro. It all seems so anti-climactic, but what else should be happening? He tries to relax and breath, hoping to minimize and redefine the pain, but knows the first few days will hurt the most. The throbbing and stinging case people and things to appear distant and fractured, but this too will diminish.

He emerges from the Metro into a quiet SW. night dominated by monuments and museums. The crowds have all gone home. His familiar bike is tied to a meter just like he left it earlier in the day. Unlocking and beginning to walk, he realizes he can ride with one hand... Carefully and slowly he pedals into the DC. night with a sling on his arm, and a prescription for percacets in his pocket.

PART TWO

I'm in a Jackson, Mississippi hospital. It is day ten of what will become an unexpected five week visit. I came here to compete in the Tour de Fleur, a National Race Series event and part of the US Pro Tour. I was supposed to continue on to Oklahoma, but was diverted when a car got onto the race course. I hit the El Camino's bumper head on at thirty-three M.P.H.

I have a broken nose, a shattered kneecap, and my leg is broken in five places. There is a fleshy hole where the bone punctured the skin. I also have a three inch wide open wound running the length of my leg, from knee to hip. This has to be left open because the traumatized muscle expanded beyond its boundaries and the skin can not be stitched up until the muscle drains and recedes. It is loosely held together by looped medical twine which looks like a zip-tie.

This condition is called compartment syndrome and is considered rare. Complications have caused me to loose my kidney function and I am on extreme fluid restriction. I've had five surgeries and been in intensive care. I receive four hour dialysis treatments every other day. I'm not in good shape.

I'm breathing into an oxygen mask and frequently tapping the morphine drip. There is a sound the machinery makes that reminds me of a song by My Bloody Valentine, that is both noisy and beautiful. The song is soothing and repetitive, maybe eight minutes long, but the sound I'm hearing has been going on for days. I attempt to point it out to others who are unable to hear it. They nay not be able to reference this group and sound. I accept that the song may be in my head, or I simply have an ultra keen ear. Either way, the result is the same, so I try to relax and give myself up to the sensation.

The total effect of the pain meshing with narcotics is a grayish pink blur. Hazy, yet sharp edged, a fine black line intercuts this backdrop.

I am the courier from those other crashes. I will leave the University of Mississippi Medical Center after five weeks in a wheel chair with a leg full of screws, bolts, rods, and coils. Doctors will tell me that I "Dodged a bullet." I', lucky to have my leg and lucky to be alive. I appreciate this fact, and acknowledge it every night when I close my eyes. Six months after Mississippi, I will tentatively put my work bike back into the DC. courier ride lanes. How much the reconstructed leg can withstand and the consequences of another crash are unknowns.

Slowly, I will get back into the mix, gauging and adjusting to compensate for my rebuilt leg. This would be a convenient time to quit. Concede to the law of average and probability. Forty hours a week working and then racing on weekends adds up to many miles in the saddle. 99.99999 % of the time I'm trouble free, and up right, passing through phases and situations. The problem is that a small percentage of failure can yield severe results. There is not much room for error. It is smart to stay aware of this.

I have procrastinated cataloguing my crashes for fear of putting a jinx or whammy on myself, but while doing so I have realized these memories are still vivid, though they have been lurking beneath the surface. Bringing them up is a reminder, a brain check... a piece of the total picture to be referenced and returned, making way for clearer vision.

Occasionally a stranger will ask, "Have you had any bad crashes?" and I will usually say no. It seems bad form to ask out of the blue and I see no reason to indulge them, or to distract myself from the concentration that makes pedaling effortless and meditative. There is too much at stake to sidetrack.

The antidote to the unsolicited stranger inquiry is the courier nod. The simple nod can imply depth and seriousness to the activity when currently nothing is even pressing close. In fact the moment may be optimum, like a motorless glider or a swim through warm water, but with just a look, the darker possibilities are understood, and a word need never be spoken.