Apparently being able to cycle 150 miles across the country physically unscathed does not entitle you to a breezy two mile ride home of a Tuesday.
Admittedly I was a little smug after my yoga class, basking in the glow of the setting sun as I left the gym. The reflection on the water made me so buoyant I Snapchatted it because that’s what we do instead of enjoying the moment.
Oh, how the mighty fall. Hubris, people.
I adore seeing adventure in the every day. It’s just sometimes slightly testing to experience the misadventure in the every day too. There I was, merrily zooming along the streets of Manchester when the fabric of the bag swinging from my handlebars caught in the tyre, ripping and blocking the spokes, bringing my ride to a crashing halt and sending me headfirst over the handlebars like some awful comedy sketch except that this is just my life. It was mortifying – not least because the bag contained a bra that I’d earlier changed out of and was now strewn in the road.
The bra was not my first concern, obviously. The whole thing was so sudden, all I was sure of was that I was spread-eagled on the tarmac, staring at the sky as various sharp pains rippled through various extremities. I detached my bike from my person as I told myself to stop shaking and keep breathing, clambering up to assess the imminent threat of becoming roadkill. A driver slowed, having missed the gymnastic fall from grace but concerned for the dazed woman staggering about.
I forced myself to think pragmatically and collected my underwear. Dignified. I realised I’d lost my Omnipod on impact; it hung limply from my hip, cannula staring up at me apologetically. My blood sugars were going to have to wait. I then tried to wheel my bike onto the pavement. But my beloved companion that has, of late, been through so much with me stubbornly failed to move. The front wheel was busted, a loose spoke falling rather pathetically to the side like a wilted flower. If flowers were made of steel and intent on causing early death.
I stood, blinking back the tears that come when the adrenaline is gone and shock sets in and realised: me, my broken bike and my bra were over a mile from home.
And so I walked. Limped in fact, carrying the damn bike the whole way. Snivelling, dishevelled and wearing a now redundant helmet, the effects of the Savasana pose long gone. Far too old to be pulling stunts like this.
So, dear Universe, do me a favour yeh? Don’t break me and my bike, and throw my underwear across the road in protest just because I flirted with being an adult with her shit together of an evening. One who does yoga and dares to stop for a moment to enjoy the setting sun. I know I got a bit carried away, alright?
Tuesday. You trickster.