A couple days ago, while we were out on a planned 10 mile ride, I tried to go up a sloped curve--the kind typically found at the entry to someone's driveway. I've gone up this exact spot a couple hundred times over the last 3 years, no problem, but this time I didn't quite approach it at the right angle, the tire caught, and I went down like a sack of potatoes.
Just =boom= onto my left side.
It was a good thing I wasn't alone, because I needed help getting up. Getting old, it sucks. If not for the bike still begin firmly between my legs I could have just rolled over and crawled up onto my knees and then up, but I was kinda stuck. And everything hurt. But, the Spouse Thingy helped me up, I made sure I could still move essential body parts, and we then slowly made our way to Dutch Bros where I could sit and assess how I really felt.
Nothing was broken, but my entire left side was not happy with me. And in that moment, more importantly, the bike was okay. We took fifteen minutes, shared a drink, and then finished the last 3 miles of the ride.
Got up the next morning and holy hell. Ouch. All over. And as the day progressed, the bruises began to show. My right index finger must had gotten caught under the brake lever, because it's a lovely shade of red. My left shin must have hit the ground first, given there's a nice softball sized bruised rearing its lovely head, and it's a bit swollen to boot.
My left shoulder, left hip, and my neck are all reminding me that they, too, were unhappy with meeting the ground.
Still...I was mostly miffed about not being able to ride. I mean, I could have, but it wasn't a great idea.
Now today I'm sitting here, looking outside because it's a gorgeous day, trying to decide if it's worth getting on the bike and piling onto the pain. My left shoulder especially is telling me it's still not happy, and my shin hurts every time I walk.
But I kinda wanna.
Oh, and I still keep reaching for brake levers that aren't there. Muscle memory is a hell of a thing.