What happened this I was run over by a car. I would not recommend it for anyone.
Fortunately now I only really need e-bike to assist getting going and uphills.
You're living proof that a helmet won't prevent serious injury. You said you had two bad knees. What happened to your other knee?
I hadn't heard of Emma O'Reilly. She says doping never occurred in the same room with her because the team knew she didn't approve. After they were caught, she answered a reporter's questions. Armstrong retaliated with character assassination, which you choose to believe.
You remind me of the time I was deliberately rammed two doors down the street from my house. A neighbor was having supper with his family when they heard a crash and knew it was a bad accident. A moment later there was a louder crash. That was me, hitting the pavement 80 feet from the point of impact. The culprit had opaque windows, which were unusual in those days. The cop entered the passenger door. They conferred 20 minutes. Then the culprit drove away. Nobody but the cop had seen his face.
The next day, a beautiful 19-year-old I'd never seen before crossed the street to confront me on the sidewalk when I left my house. She said she'd heard about the "accident" and asked if I was all right. By her face, she was truly concerned. I'd recovered from my aphasia. Seeking sympathy, I said I'd thought I was badly hurt, but I was just bruised. Later, I found out she didn't even live in my town. She was the daughter of a police captain in another town.
The law required me to get the identity of the other driver from the police report in order to submit my report to the state. The uniformed desk clerk told me I was not allowed to see the report. Without a word, she put the report on the counter in front of me, left the room, and closed the door behind her. I recognized the name of the cop from an item I'd read in the newspaper a year ago, when he'd broken his arm crashing a Honda. The other driver was identified by a common name, a California driver's license number, and a local address. California was 3,000 miles away. The local address was a vacant lot.
Two weeks later, I received a copy of the official police report. Only one cop had been at the scene, but the report said there were two, and neither was the one on the report I wasn't supposed to see. The revised account of the crash was fictitious. If you want somebody murdered, your local police department will be happy to arrange it.
I didn't know the motive. I was unaware of breaking any laws or harming anyone. Thirteen years later, a man invited two people I knew to dinner. They reported that he'd spent three hours making so many allegations against me that they could remember only one. He'd asked a friend in Naval Intelligence to find out what was in my service record. She'd checked and told him it was classified. He'd concocted a story that this was a government coverup of all kinds of heinous things I'd done. He bragged to his dinner guests about all the people he'd persuaded that it was true. Once they believed that, they chose to believe all kinds of other allegations. This became a motive for attempted murder.
I don't wear a helmet anymore. It's not worth it. Socks are another matter. Emma said part of her job was massaging calves to speed recovery. Nowadays they have socks for that. I have three pair.
