[ Irish KC ]
Kansas City Irish Festivals, Music, Pubs, & Events by an Artist in Ireland

Part 13 of the Cycle-Across-America series relayed day by day, exactly ten years after it happened. (Read from the start in Boston)

In yesterday’s section I bought a bicycle to replace the one destroyed in the Hit-and-Run. Ten years ago today I was wondering what I was doing:

So in the morning I head off again. Am I ready? I’m scared of the traffic but I just want to get moving again. If I’m lucky then all my bad luck (or at least the really bad stuff) is behind me.

I’m not really sure what I’m doing; the trip doesn’t seem too important anymore, and yet it’s all I know for now. All I’ve thought of and prepared for, for so long. I don’t really feel that I’m necessarily cycling to the far coast anymore. I still want to, but not as much.

Before I was hit I knew I’d make it across; the only doubt I had was about which route I’d take. Would I be strong enough for the longest route? Now, I don’t know how far I’ll make it. I may not make it to Kansas City. I may not make through tomorrow. But if I don’t carry on now and try, then it really is all over.

It seems surreal so soon after I was stuck in an episode of St Elsewhere - the series inside the snow globe - with an array of characters, all strangers, visiting me through the night in the Isolation and Decontamination Room.

Despite the reaction the hot tea had caused back in the McDonald’s, I wondered if they might have any in the hospital. Somebody said Shirley would know - because Shirley was English. They tracked her down and she produced the only tea-bag in the hospital, her last, for me.

Shirley was from Somerset. She’d seen Riverdance in London. Her friend had seen it in New York, and her son lived for years now in Dublin. The pair of them danced Riverdance for me as I lay on my side with packs of ice on my backside.

Ken was my nurse for a shift. He conjured up six packets of crackers for me when the canteen was closed. With almost a hundred miles cycled earlier I devoured them like the sandwich previously. He produced a Werther’s Original toffee from his pocket for my dessert.

Lisa, his replacement, gave me bike shop numbers and her home number. Her husband was a cyclist and a physician. He could do the follow up urine test in a few days.

A woman appeared at the doorway and pointed at all my stuff now in plastic bags.
-Good job I know you’re a bike person or else I’d've thought you were a bag person.
This was Kathy. Wore a sash full of pin badges - all given to her by patients. I regretted not bringing my little tri-colours.

I chatted to the man sweeping up. He stopped and talked. He was gentle. He described his house by walking around the room as if it was his house. He used his hands a lot. He lived alone and his house looked lovely - as mimed.

Funny how I want to continue the trip, but the actual act of cycling, of sitting on a saddle with this bruised bum and hip, and moving my legs to make the peddal go around, is the last thing I want to do. Decided I finally better do it though and find out what my new bike is like.

It’s a Cannondale. Which means nothing to me. A T-400, 21-speed, blah, blah, blah. It’s a bike and it looks funny and I really liked my old bike. Rode this American upstart up and down my aunt’s cul-de-sac. Twice. It was the bare minimum so I had an idea of what it felt like.

Put my old tyres and wheels on, as much for continuity sake as for the familiarity of the skinniness. They’re great wheels and a present from a friend in Dublin. Amazingly they both survived the hit. The tyres are 28s, and replace the fat 38s the Cannondale came with.

Tried it out with the panniers on. It is a lovely bike, though I know I would never have bought it - if I had more of a choice. Tomorrow it needs a name. Kiptopeka comes to mind. Maybe. The bike that was ruined was called Ned. Maybe it makes more sense to cycle in America on an American bike.

Apprehensive so much about the morning. Can I cycle ninety miles? What about this new bike? And new panniers? Most of all the traffic - I’m frightened. And to top it I have to go right back to the scene of the crime so I can pick up the line and continue from where I left off - or was thrown off.

Read from the

Read the Next Entry in My Bicycle Trip Across America

beginning of the Cycle Across America

This entry was posted on Monday, August 14th, 2006 at 11:21 am and is filed under Cycle Across America. You can follow responses via my RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response or trackback from your site.