“There was never a horse that couldn’t be rode, and never a cowboy that couldn’t be throwed.”
I started riding English bikes in first grade and had probably pedaled well over 20,000 miles when I finished high school. In those days, men over 20 usually rode English bikes, and the death toll per million miles for helmetless men was much lower than for helmeted men these days.
JFK put an end to safe, comfortable riding with a prohibitive tariff on all imported bikes except ten-speeds. I got my first e-bike at 73 and found that they all seem badly affected by ten-speed design, with bars too low and seats too far forward. I modified it and two I bought subsequently.
As of 12:32 PM, October 14, 2024, I’d pedaled about 8,000 miles on e-bikes in addition to far more miles on English utility bikes, all without a scratch. A 55-year-old youngster was visiting the woman next door; I think it was her nephew, a bank robber who loved his stretch in the federal pen, where he got a college degree at taxpayer expense. As I approached, a gate opened and his bulldog came after me. Because a brick wall obstructed my view, I didn’t see it until an instant before impact.
The breed was developed by gentlemen who enjoyed seeing their beloved pets killed in the process of tearing pieces off a tethered bull. The basic viciousness of a bulldog is exceeded only by its notorious stupidity.
I saw only a flash of the dog and the 90-pound cannonball hit the front of my front wheel from the left. A steering lock saves cables by limiting steering to 70 degrees each way, but this impact turned the wheel well over 90 degrees right.
High siding on a motorcycle happens when forces get so far out of phase that the contact patches of the tires act as hinges, converting the rider’s forward motion to downward motion, slamming him to the pavement. That’s what my e-bike did. In milliseconds I saw my horizon rotate 90 degrees as I went down with my feet on the pedals and hands on the grips.
I got right up. My hat had fallen off but wasn’t damaged. My mirror was smashed, but I had an extra one at home. My $42 Bombay horn was bent. I had abrasions on my hand, my elbow, and my forehead, but only my elbow hurt. The blow to my head wasn’t even hard enough to cause a bump. With the bars turned more than 90 degrees, I’d been slammed the pavement on my side with my left arm extended way out front, and I’d broken a rib. As long as it hadn’t penetrated my parietal pleura, I’d be okay. My shoulder hurt, but I didn’t know what was wrong because swelling on the back limited movement. The impact must have stunned my vagus nerve, for my pulse was 150. That didn’t seem to be a handicap, although in time it can increase the risk of a clot.
With the steering lock way out of whack, the handlebars would turn only slightly to the left, which meant I had to walk that bike back to my carport. Chalk one up for the stupid, vicious dog.
In an hour, my heart suddenly settled down; I guess my vagus nerve had recovered from the jolt. I discovered that I was in the habit of giving an occasional cough to clear my throat. Not with a broken rib! I’d run to the kitchen and quench my desire with a glass of water. I hoped my rib would heal before the next epidemic of respiratory infections.
I couldn’t budge the steering lock even with a hammer on a large screwdriver, so I was reduced to pedestrianhood until the next afternoon. There were no visible bruises, but I soon had several hematomas along my femur. I’d never had one before. In a day or two, they went away and one the size of half a cantaloupe appeared on my hip. For several weeks, it kept me from sleeping on my left side.
I hoped the scrape on my forehead would leave a distinguished Frankenstein scar, but in two days it was gone. After two weeks I could cough gently, and my rib was healed in 6 weeks. The shoulder ached and took longer to heal, but it was useful the whole time.
If you find yourself in a frying pan, you should resist the temptation to hop into the fire. In other words, when you find yourself at death’s door, you should remember that a doctor might pull you through. I must have gone through 20¢ worth of aspirin, the wonder drug.
Medical students are taught to follow the advice of bank robber Willie Sutton: go where the money is. Thus, when the bulldog owner complained to a doctor about a toe problem, the doctor amputated his leg.
My experience shows why the per-mile death rate for American men was so low before elitist JFK banned, in effect, the humble English 3-speed. My seating position was so well braced that I didn’t go over the bars even with the front wheel suddenly turned crosswise. Helmet or no helmet, my side could absorb the violent impact much better than my head and neck.