Can I ride my bike?

I’m a wuss. When I tried to get out of bed this morning, and couldn’t, I immediately assumed that my anterior cruciate coliform had fractured in the Big Tuesday Crash. “Honey,” I said. “I gotta go to the hospital.”

Mrs. WM doesn’t like being awakened at 4:30 AM. “You onna what?”

“The hospital. I think I broke my coliform nexus prospangerineum.”

“I ain’t onna goin to no hospital.”

“No, honey, I can’t get out of bed. It really hurts.”

“How come you onna gettin out of four o’clock bed? Itsa sleepy time onna three more hours.”

“But I have to get up and pee and I can’t get up.”

Now she was alert. Mrs. WM always gets alert when it comes to bed wetting. “You ain’t onna bed pissing again?”

“No, but I need help to the toilet.”

“If you onna bed pissing, you changing the sheets. I ain’t onna touchin your hot bedsheet pisswater.”

“Please … ”

She relented, and helped me up. As soon as I sat on the toilet, I had to number two. But the pain in my side was so acute that as soon as the log rolled down through the logjam and started peeking at the door, a tremendous stabbing pain shot up my side, so bad that it took my breath away and forced the log back up the chute.

“Why you onna gaspin?” she asked.

“Oh my dog,” I moaned. “I gotta crap but can’t.”

She stuck her head in the door. “It sure stinkin like you can.” She held her nose.

“I almost can, but then I can’t.”

“Well, I ain’t onna holdin that for you. Grabbin on the little chin-chin to pissin in the bottle I can do, but I ain’t onna helpin you poopers.”

The spasm came again. “Gimme that garbage can,” I said. She handed it to me, and I flipped it upside down, putting my right foot on the can and thereby raising my right knee high above my pelvis.

“How come you doin onna pilates?”

“It’s not pilates. I’m trying to find the right position.”

“Now you know how a girl feels onna lovemakin. Gotta get the leg up and the middle parts down low. Better onna action traction.”

Deep in the throes of Jakeleg Facing Dog Grunting Stool, I completed the mission, dressed, and headed off to Torrance Memorial.

Marcus Welby, M.D.

I limped into the admitting area of the E.R. “What’s your issue, sir?” the woman asked.

“He ain’t got onna no issue. He just don’ wanna go onna office. He was drinkypants last night like nobody’s business.”

“I fell down,” I said.

“From where?” the lady asked.

“My bike.” The pain was so bad I could barely stand, but they clearly thought I was flopping, especially after Mrs. WM had alerted them to last night’s drinkypantism.

In triage they examined me carefully. “Where does it hurt?”

Mrs. WM, who had sneaked in with me, piped up. “It’s hurtin’ onna place he can’t be drinkypants. He drinkin onna beer last night he wasn’t complainin. But he gotta go onna office all of a sudden he can’t walk or poopers.”

“How would you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten?” the nurse asked.

“Thirty,” I said.

“Let me go get the doctor.”

As we sat in the room we listened to the people outside pleading their case to the doc. “I just need the prescription refilled, Dr. Smorgasbord.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t see the need at this point. You stubbed your toe four weeks ago, and we’ve refilled your Percocet-Vicodin 12,000 mg prescription seven times.”

“But I’m in such pain, doc. You can’t imagine.”

Next it was our turn. “Well, Mr. Davidson, the x-rays came back negative. No fractures at all. I suppose you’ll be wanting some pain meds?”

“No,” I said.

She looked at me funny. “We were going to give you an injection. For the pain.”

“I don’t want one.”

“You said you were in enough pain that you couldn’t get out of bed.”

Mrs. WM chimed in. “He’s just onna complainin. He ain’t hurtin. Just puttin’ a leg onna trashcan and poopin like a drinkypants with too many chili burritos.”

The doc turned to me. “Your hip and back show significant bruising. How fast were going when you fell down?”

“About forty.”

“You should really take the injection.”

“Just one question, doc.”


“After the injection, can I ride my bike?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, that settles it.”

And it did.

45 thoughts on “Can I ride my bike?”

  1. Nothin like some good quality bathroom humor to start the day.
    Hope everyone is on the mend!

  2. Whining about a crash is like complaining about a flat tire. Real riders don’t do that.

  3. I had a helluva laugh at your expense, thanks to this post. Least I can to is to wish you a speedy recovery…..

  4. Todd Schoenbaum

    Seth, I’m sure you’re well setup up but if there is anything you need, please let me know.

  5. OMD ~ I am not sure how you do this, write about, ah, that, and make it yet another gem. Set,h you constantly make me laugh out loud while I feel your pain and want to cry at the very same instant. Love Love Love Love Love Love & thank you.

  6. Take the injection…get on the bike. Better yet, take the injection AND the double-series prescription, hopefully for Oxycontin or Vicodin, and still get on the bike. Better living through chemistry, man. Like the old days.

    1. Abso-damn-lutely.

      While I’m no addictive pain med user, understand that pain/injury is kind of a virtuous circle in a human body. Reduce the pain/swelling and recovery happens faster.

      I bet you didn’t do anything resembling hot-cold compression to the area after the fall either.

      Does it feel good being a “tough guy” about the injection?

      I have to check the holy cycling scriptures for guidance on the issue.

  7. Seth, I crashed the day after you did, and flipped over an embankment. Cracked some ribs and am having the hardest time getting in and outta bed. Laughing hurts too, so cut this shit out!

  8. Right there with ya WM…threw my back out Sunday…couldn’t even wipe cause the spasms had my butt cheeks tighter than Dutchie’s wallet….only bad part is I have no video or gnarly crash story…nope I hurt myself bending over to pickup my phone charger….lame I know! It gets better as I did it in beautiful Tulare, CA…I know you’ve never heard of that town as they have no bike shop but it’s 7 miles South of Visalia which used to host the Fole Cycling Classic every March & boy were there some crashes on that technical course! My dad managed to drag me to my car & slipped me a Norco & some Ibuprofen….drugs & cruise control got me home in 3 hours…thank Dog it was Sunday & nobody was on the road cause my arms were numb, vision blurred, & I couldn’t lift my foot to hith the brakes if my life depended on it. Managed to drag my sorry butt to the Dr. on Monday where I gladly accepted a prescription of Flexerill & 800 mg Ibuprofen….I’m not nearly as tough as you. Hope you are ok on the plane & eat a big Philly Cheesestake sand which for me!

  9. Brings back the post-hernia-op days when laughing, crapping and sneezing were too painful to even think about. This, too, will pass.

  10. Oh man, I’m in tears reading this – almost as good as the “Extra Poopers” story from a while back. Thanks for the humor as always!

    Someday I’ll get back down to the south bay and see you on the donut ride. Speed recovery, Wanky. 🙂

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