Doored

In many sports and hobbies you're only a true afficiando once you get hurt. In sewing, you're not a quilter until the needle of your machine runs through a finger nail (I'm not a quilter, yet). In figure skating, you're not a true skater until a blade--yours or someone else's--has sliced through some part of you (a thigh in my case). And in cycling, you're not a city road rider until you've been "doored."

Now I'm a roadie. If there are gradations to this rule, I'm on the easiest gear. The ignoramus in the white sedan didn't knock me off the bike. Rather than screaming expletives at the sloth who didn't look before opening her door into oncoming traffic, I produced a pained, high-pitched, and perplexed yawp. Too bad.

Immediately the pain kicks in. The kind of pain that makes your leg tremble slightly when unmoving, waiting at red lights. But still, I'm lucky. It's not deep and my roommate made me an icepack.

And tomorrow, I'll be back. Lookout Clark, here I come.