Over the Handlebars

I’ve ridden my bike to class every fair-weather day for the past two years. I gingerly lean through sharp turns, pedal up and down hills with ease, maybe pop a wheelie three inches off the ground. I’m really good.

This week, however, the earth must have rotated a bit faster, the wind must have been a little bit stronger, or those darn landscapers must have moved the rock wall on that corner two inches to the right, because I fell off my bike.

Twice.

TWICE.

I felt like Calvin learning to ride his bike in the old comic strips. And when I fell, it wasn’t like a stumbled to the side and got back on, I was actually thrown over the handlebars.

The first time I was trying to run into Christie’s wheel with mine, got tangled up, and went flying. The second time, I ran into a rock wall on campus and, again, was thrown over my handlebars and crashed into the ground, slamming my shoulder on Christie’s wheel, and bending it. 

The wheel, not my shoulder.

I’m a little discouraged to get back on.  I’ve been told it’s just like riding a bike. That doesn’t really help.