Easter Miracle: Nearly Killed by Frank Costanza

He should feel lucky.  Lucky that it wasn’t someone who didn’t grow up with the high score on Frogger, someone new to cycling out for their first sunny sixty degree ride after months of dreadful Cincinnati weather, someone without years of experience deftly picking their way through packs of drunken Chicagoans at Milwaukee’s Summerfest, someone who hasn’t been racing and riding long enough to count a Breezer Thunder among the bikes in the man cave, someone who didn’t just get back from a week of mountain descending in Georgia, someone who doesn’t burn a Sven Nys Prayer Candle.  It would’ve been different then, bloody limbless Walking Dead different I’m sure. 

There would’ve been Easter leftovers all over the car and shrieks and screams and a ceremonial reading of the RoadID and sirens and backboards and stuffed animals knocked off the rear window shelf and endless calls to the geniuses in medical billing departments and physical therapy and lawsuits and insurance premiums that would make a wee-wee pig choke on a gecko.  Instead, up in the air was the back of my Italian hand and a shout, “What are you trying to F-ing kill me!?” 

I almost got hit by a car yesterday.  Of course he wasn’t trying to kill me.  Of course I couldn’t think of anything more clever to say like, “didn’t they teach you to love thy neighbor in church this morning?”  However, he should feel lucky it wasn’t someone else.  It would’ve been much more than a close call and a blog full of theatrical language and long sentences strung together with the word “and.”

Please don’t take this as being cocky.  If you know me, I’m not one to brag and I don’t make wiener jokes.  I still have a lot to learn on a bike, like being able to farmer blow my nose.  I simply had control.  My hands, fingers wrapped around the bars, gripped the drops.  Hips slightly back, my thighs held the saddle.  Sorry if that sounded too 50 Shades of Grey for you.  Erie Avenue in Cincinnati is a very popular thoroughfare for cyclists, a main road taking riders east from the city to the rolling hills and scenic Little Miami River Valley.  The bike-lane header photo on the main page of this blog is from Erie Avenue.  It’s about a 1.5 mile hill.  I was headed down.  The light was green.    

There was a woman with light reddish-brown curly hair in the passenger seat.  With thinning unkempt hair, he was driving a green older model boxy Dodge sedan.  So yeah, a slightly younger version of Mr. and Mrs. Costanza were about to run me down sit-com style in a car very similar to one on Seinfeld.  Or, at least that’s what it appeared to me in the span of less than 3 seconds and an ish-timated speed of 28-ish mph. 

Across from the bar and bistro, I was about to pass the dry cleaner on the right.  It could’ve been the sunshine or my sunglasses, but the Costanza car windows seemed tinted yellow.   I’m guessing he didn’t see me or misjudged my speed.  Either way, his speed never changed as he turned left in front of me.  Recalling pretty much everything aside from whether or not there was a hula girl on the dash, I don’t remember seeing a blinker.

Very Similar to Kramer's Ford LTD

It’s amazing how fast the brain and body work together, like they’re connected with nerves or something.  Immediately, at the speed Mr. Costanza started his turn, I knew I wasn’t going to eek past on my current line.  I like to read the foll-oh-ing in a slow-mo-shun-voice and use robot hand gestures.  I threw my weight back and squeezed the brake levers, slowing as fast as possible.  I remember focusing quickly, then looking away from, his shiny green chrome trimmed wheel well and passenger side quarter panel, the point of impact I later judged.  Still too fast to cut a quick hard right turn, I eased to the right, aiming roughly for the far corner of the intersection, a wheel chair curb ramp, between him and a car on the cross street stopped at the light. 

It still didn’t look good, like Elaine dancing.  I threw the bike harder right and grabbed more brake.  The rear end kicked left toward his car, slightly skidding.  Looking back, the change of direction maybe bought me a fraction of a second and/or caught his attention.  Mr. Costanza slammed on the brakes.   I corrected and, with a few feet to spare on either side, skated through the gap untouched and on the main road.  I didn’t need to exit via the wheel chair ramp.  It was real and spectacular.

I was calm and collected until I was safe.  That’s when I looked back, the hand came up and the colorful Easter language came out.  With his window down, I know he saw and heard it, (so did the people in the black car stopped at the light) then they were gone out of sight up the side street.  I continued down the hill. 

I remember thinking I should be freaked out, but not a single goosebumb popped up.  The Garmin confirmed my heart rate wasn’t jacked.  In recollection, the incident seemed oddly calculated and clinical, like when soldiers train through a mock urban ambush on TV.  Shoot the pop-up bad guys, don’t shoot the kid.  With squirrels, trees, rocks, holes, other bikes, dogs, deer, and cars, I’ve been in situations like this dozens, if not a hundred times before.  I’ve been riding bikes long enough to have the confidence that I’ll save it, or at least do everything I can to save it, until I don’t.  For me, it wasn’t luck at all.

He’s lucky it wasn’t a less experienced rider, someone who freaks out in crowded elevator, a rider that may have panicked and slammed on the brakes and straight skidded into the car or tried to turn too abruptly and comically top-sided with too much speed.   He’s lucky I maintain my bike and brush it’s hair.  It has new cables and tires.  It’s routinely cleaned and lubed, including checking the brakes, tire pressure and scrubbing the rims of grit.  He’s lucky I treat parked cars and intersections with more respect than a skier slicing up gates on a Super-G downhill and had the sense to keep my speed in check on a busy descent where a rider could easily top 35mph.  He’s lucky I ride with my eyes up, take descents in the drops, always keep my fingers wrapped about the bars and saw his car long enough to describe his passenger’s uncanny resemblance to Mrs. Costanza before he saw me.  Oh Georgie!  As I write, I hope Frank’s sharing my thoughts, it’s a miracle he didn’t hit someone with his car on Easter Sunday.  

Evasive Maneuvering: Bucket Truck of Death

Confident, the index and middle finger on my right hand began to squeeze the brake lever trigger.  It would send my rear wheel skidding out to the right at 25mph.  My left knee augered away from my bike to take the initial impact of my left hip, hand and handlebars hitting the rain soaked oily pavement.  Coming down the Gilbert Avenue hill into downtown Cincinnati I judged I had about a two foot ceiling and a 10-12 foot gap to shoot between the wheels and under an energy company bucket truck.  I think I would’ve made it.  Then it stopped.

Not The Exact Bucket Truck, But You Get The Idea

I tacked right and skirted around the front bumper, the truck jutting two-thirds of the way into my lane.  I looked back at the driver.  His window was down, bare arm on the frame.  We locked eyes.  It’s at these moments you wish you had something clever to say, something like, “What the F*** Bucket Head!”  Like Peter Sagan contesting a sprint infraction, the back of my Italian left hand leaped into the air toward the driver and the only quip my mouth could muster was “Dooooood!”  So I’m only a quarter Italian.

As I was coming down the hill in the left lane to make the left turn at the light only 150 meters away, the bucket truck was coming up on the other side of the median then made a sudden U-turn midway into my path to the light.  Had my bike rolled 20-25 feet closer I know I would’ve squeezed that lever.  At 25mph, a bike travels 36.6 feet per second.  Looking back, I estimate I had a little more than a half second to waffle on the option of grabbing a fist full of brake and taking myself human bowling. 

The light was red.  I slowed to a stop in the left hand turn lane.  The truck pulled up in the far right.  With no one else at the intersection, he could’ve quickly turned and drove away, but he stopped for me.  His eyes were wide, visibly shaken.  He shouted sincerely out the window, “Sorry.  My bad.”  I half smiled.  Considering my stupidity for riding too fast for conditions, I waved him off saying, “It’s all good,” and turned back up the hill for my 5^th hill repeat.

Cinti Cyclist Injured-Help with Alison Delgado Fund

I personally don't know Alison Delgado, it doesn't matter.  Her and her husband seem a lot like my wife and I, athletic professionals, eastsiders, probably a lot like you too.  They race, they ride, run, hike and backpack.  In fact you could probably swap the names and professional occupations in the article below and it'd be like reading your own biography, except she probably beat you in the Flying Pig.  Cute couple too.  Chances are you were on a ride and gave Alison a "cyclists wave" or a head nod and not even knew it was her.  She was struck by a car recently.  The following is an excerpt from the Alison Delgado fundraising page on Razoo, a fundraising website.  Click here to go to that page. Please do what you can to help. 


On October 16th, Alison was riding on Cincinnati's East Side when she was struck a by car. She's still being treated at Cincinnati's University Hospital for the multiple, serious injuries that she sustained.  The medical bills are mounting and your help for Alison is greatly appreciated.  


Alison is the 2005 women’s champion of the Cincinnati Flying Pig.  Read the story by clicking this link to the Flying Pig website.    

Along with her husband, Resident Physician Tim Delgado, she is an avid cyclist, racing in both road and cyclocross events. She also loves hiking and backpacking.

The outdoors aren’t her only passion- she is a Resident Pediatrician at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. Alison is a very bright and outgoing person, so please help wipe away one more needless worry from Tim and Alison’s plate as they focus on Alison’s recovery.

Your donation is entirely tax deductible and everything you give will be sent directly to Fifth Third Bank's Alison Delgado Fund. If you would rather mail a check, please send it to:

The Alison Delgado Fund

c/o Fifth Third Bank

38 Fountain Square Plaza

MD 109026

Cincinnati Ohio 45202

You can also give directly by going to any Fifth Third bank branch office.  Or click here to donate on Razoo.

Facebook Friday! You Look Like You Could Use A Beer And Other Things Shouted At You On A Ride

It’s Facebook Friday on The Best Bike Blog Ever*.  This week’s topic sure put a thorn in your chamois and resulted in the most participated-in topic ever.  Woot.  During the week we ask our Facebook Friends (likers) a pressing question.  On Fridays, we lay it out so you can play it out.  If you’d like to be part of the fun, click on this link to the Best Bike Blog Ever’s Facebook page and “lick” it.  I mean “like” it.  This week’s question:

What is the most memorable thing a motorist has ever shouted at you while on a ride?

Carol: "You look like you could use a beer! Here sweetheart, take a cold one. I'm wore out just lookin’ at ya!"

Eric: I'm going to F*** you in the ear

Peter: Two of us were riding from St Rt 126 up the hill toward Wards Corner. I was in front and all of sudden heard this scream/yelp from my friend Michael as a car slowly rolled by me. Turns out the guy in the passenger seat leaned out the window and pinched Michael in the ass.

Shane: Sidewalk azzzhhhoooolllll!

Butch: Hey sexy!! Complete with wolf whistle.  (The motorist was a male in a 70's vintage Chevy pickup truck)

Kim: 1975ish, east of Louisville on a group ride a pickup comes alongside and a very intoxicated guy yells "You F--King Q---rs” and tossed an open beer can at us! This of course is way before cell phones.  About a mile up the road the truck was being detained by the county boys. We rode by cheering!!  Ah the old days...

Corey: "Nice Butt!"

Dan: "Nice butt!"

Mike: Run forest run!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tim: (I don’t know about) Shouted? I watched a guy vomit from the passenger window of a pickup about 25 feet ahead of me once.

Andrew: I don't know, I can never understand them. The barking dogs make more sense with their comments!

Nick:  How about the 20+ incarnations of some sort of "Go Lance", or the variations on find an F'ing bike trail.

Mary: "Do you need medical help?" (see, i don't clip in so good sometimes...)

David: This lady laid on her horn as she passed me and yelled something out the window. I, for some reason yelled back, "GET OFF THE ROAD!!!"

David S: Very early on a Sunday morning about 18 years ago a pickup pulled up along side of us and (the occupants) started throwing eggs.  Whoever was tossing wasn’t a very good shot, but sure made us wonder whether the kids went without bfast that morning or just drove around throwing eggs before church.

Dave: Three sweaty, shirtless guys squeezed into a small truck...all yelled the typical " F$#$ing Queer ! " They were practically laying on each other half-naked, and Im queer?

Harold: "Nice ass!" Normally this might have been cool, but the scary looking guy with the confederate flag and "git-r-dun" stickers on his rusty old Ford truck slowed way down to say it. Epic yikes!

Cameron: She was actually a pedestrian, but I had a girl in Morrow scream "Hey, penis!" at me once.

Dave (again): Not yelled, but thrown: A FULL bag of Burger king stuff. Dude had literally had just driven out of the drive thru. Yeah, I was tempted to have a mid-ride snack.

James: "Put some saddles on your bikes!" Lil Bjet and I were dancing on the peddles up the steep section of Ibold. I had to laugh.  It did look like we were preventing a velo-enema.

Christopher: "Stay out of my Fucking way," as they whizzed passed my handle bar clipping me with the side mirror.  Sometimes I have heard a few whistles...they are not always bad comments.

Not That Lance: While slowly rolling up to an intersection, a car rolls up in the left lane and squeezes into my lane nearly hitting my bike. The passenger's side window rolls down and one of the two little old women said "You boys aren't supposed to be in the road.  Get on the sidewalk."  Then the window rolled up and the car continued to move to the right. There wasn't a sidewalk for miles.

Mark:  South side of Columbus, "Hey, I really like those flames on your clothes.  That is one badass outfit."  

Peter (again): At the 4-way intersection in Maineville a shirtless guy in a car going the other direction stands through the sunroof and yells, “F$@% You” at the top of his lungs. It is now called the FU intersection.

Marisel: The honks from the SUVs in Prospect Park, Bklyn are more memorable than anywords could ever be!

Kate: "Go Lance Go!!” Funny. "You're fat!!” Not funny

Jason: Imagine the stereotypical adolescent carrying his pants in Price Hill (a rough neighborhood).  Then imagine him saying this to me during hill repeats on my 5th time up Quebec, "You got this."  It still brings a smile to my face. 

The Exploding Gear Bag of Race Day

A stinking frog pond of Lycra, denim and North Face lily pads filled my Toyota 4-Runner from dash to tailgate. On top lay a film of tools, water bottles and helmets. Yeah, we had 5 people in the truck, but I said pack light. They abided. Each person only had a single backpack or bag. I was the only one with a cooler bag. On the way down, there was plenty of room so we packed in spare wheels, a bike stand, a pump and even two camp chairs. It was organized and tidy, everything had its place. Aside from the bikes on the roof, you would never guess that five people were traveling in the same car. Someone even commented how roomy it was in the back.

Now, the gear was two feet deep in my truck. About 45 minutes before my race, I stopped back at the truck to grab a water bottle and I had to reach through the window or risk a waterfall of stinky chamois cascading out the door. Nate apologized that his helmet had rolled off the passenger seat mountain and into the valley under the steering wheel. Like a trailside cairn, a pair of shoes and a tub of chamois butter sat on top of my small cooler bag. A multi tool in three pieces now sat atop Mt. Nate. The back seat looked in as much disarray as the clearance T-shirt bin at Wal-Mart, if Wal-Mart carried North Face and Verge gear.

Harry, a teammate, calls it the exploding gear bag. This post was his idea. I’ve seen his truck midway through a race day and you would’ve thought he crammed 4 guys in his old pick up, but Harry usually travels solo. He too will swear, but in an Appalachian drawl, that he reckons he only packed one bag, a spare set of wheels, a small cooler, a trainer and a thermos of red beans and rice. Somehow the bed of his truck and inside of his cab looked like he got divorced the morning of the race.

It doesn’t seem to matter how organized the people in the car are at home or in their career. Harry’s an electrician by trade. I’ve seen his work van and the organization of tools in the back would make Bob Villa jealous. Of the people in my car, Amanda’s a journalist, Jake’s an engineer, Brian’s a pilot, Nate’s a salesperson and I’m a creative radio production dork. The only common thread is that we’re all cyclists and we all seem to handle race prep the same methodological way. You arrive. You sign in. You scout the course. You eat a bit. You tweak the bike. You pin on you number. You warm up. You down a Gu. You race. The seemly disorganized pile of gear is simply a byproduct of racing.

I guess racing is a sport of needs. There’s not a whole lot of giving. Bike needs lube. I need to register. I got to take a crap before I put on the skinsuit. Aside, from the occasional help given to a teammate to pin on a number or quickly change a warm-up flat, if it doesn’t directly have an impact on the outcome of the race, it can wait. And so, from the tool box, the wheel bag, the backpack, and the cooler…the debris from the exploding gear bag flows through the car.

It's All Fobbed Up

Quite the opposite of the eureka moment of the Reese’s Peanut Butter cup discovery, my fob got in my Gu, or Gu got in my Fob, one of the two. It still works. Well…sort of. However, now when I use the fob to open the car door, I have to point it and press the button slow and deliberate like it’s a weapon on the old Star Trek series. “Spock! Use your fob!” “Patience Captain. It appears Uhuru dropped it in the Gu puddle back on Planet Stickimus.” The real issue is that you really can't clean Gu out of a fob. Sugary Gu does dissolve nicely in water. Electronics also dissolve nicely in water. If there’s any good news about my sticky fob, I’m sure if I ever were in a situation like Man Vs Wild’s Bear Grylls, I could find a way to extract the sugary content of the circuit board for “needed sustenance” to survive a week in Siberia while I try to find my way back to my car in China.

This of course leads me to how to keep the Gu Fob McDLT-ish ingredients from coming into contact with each other. I used to love McDonalds McDLT, the hot burger and cheese on one side of the container, the crisp lettuce and tomato on the other. Take a moment right now for the McDLT. Hopefully my solution will be as brilliant. Hopefully one day McDonalds will bring back the McDLT.

Guless Fob Solution #1: The Offspring

You gotta keep ‘em separated. Keep your Gu and food in the jersey pocket closest to your strong hand. I’m left handed. Gu goes in left hand pocket, key fob and cell phone in right, and tube & tools in the middle. If you have a Camelback, Gu goes in the strap pocket, your key fob goes inside. Or, put the Gu’s under the elastic of your shortlegs and the fob someplace else that’s not sticky, wet or hairy.

Guless Fob Solution #2: Move To The Boonies

Move to where you can ride your bike right out the door. That way you’ll never need to take your fob. You should probably also move to where you can leave your house doors unlocked, because some alarm systems and new door locks are now coming with guess what….fobs.

Guless Fob Solution #3: Forget The Fob

In most cases, it’s the key that starts the car, so there’s no need to bring the fob. Of course this brings up a whole new set if issues. If the car key flies out of your pocket when you spectacularly crash down an embankment and somehow you manage to get your carcass back to your car, you won’t be able to start the car to drive yourself to the hospital.

Guless Fob Solution #4: Don’t B Stoopid.

The whole reason Gu got in my fob is that when I ride, I keep my Gu’s under the elastic of my shorts legs. When I got back to my car and took off my jersey, I needed a place to temporarily stash my fob as I put the bike up on the roof rack. In my caloric deficit haze I stuck the fob under the elastic of my shorts legs and completely forgot that an expired Gu was under there. Maybe I should’ve had more to eat than Gu.

Facebook Friday: How Do You Prevent Yourself From Smashing The Bikes On Your Car Roofrack Into Your Garage Door

Yakima used to make a device called a “Load Alert.”  It’s an ingenious little device that sticks to your car's hood with a magnet.  It’s a spring loaded sign, that only pops up when your car goes under about 25mph.  Over 25, the presure from the wind holds it flat to the hood.  I have one.  It work great as long as you're not so hungry you pull into McDonalds drive-thru at 30mph.  Unfortantely we have two cars with bike racks. 

Another solution I read was to put your garbage cans in the front of the garage spot when you pull out.  That way you have to stop and move them before you pull in.  Brilliant.  And, if it still fails, you can just toss your rack and bike in the convenietly located garbage cans.

My wife nearly decapitated her Indy Fab this past week.  I saw it all unfold.  From the thrid floor, I heard the garage door open.  Being a good hubby, I started down the stairs to help her out.  As I got to the 2^nd floor, her car was already in the driveway and still rolling forward.  STOP.  STOP!!  I shouted out the open window.  Her windows rolled up and her on the phone, she couldn’t hear.  I broke into a full sprint, leaping down the last flight of stairs shouting, “STAAAAAHHHHHP!!!!”  Then, the crunch.  I opened the front door, expecting total carbon carnage.  Luckily the bike was just short enough and the garage overhang wood just soft enough that the bike barely wedged in.  

The only damage was to the wood of the garage overhang (see above photo of scatches) and the hinge pin of her heart rate monitor strapped to her handlebars.  Fhew.  Bike OK.  (photo left) Nothing ten bucks, a little garage paint and a trip to the watch repair shop wont fix.

Since I didn’t have a whole lot of time to write and research solutions, I posed the question to my Facebook friends.  How Do You Prevent Yourself From Smashing The Bikes On Your Car Roofrack Into Your Garage Door?  Here’s a few comments:

SUSAN 

Some kind of alarm system that smacks you in the face when 5 feet away or something. Had the same error about a week ago with a low-hanging ATM. Bike OK but bike rack pretty (messed) up.  The bike torqued the whole thing.  I was hurrying to do errands and get to a ride.

JADEN

Giant mirror above the garage door like they probably have on the ceilings at the Wild Wood Inn in Florence Y'all! 

SHANNON

Hang a sign from the inside of your garage door. When you press the door opener and the door opens, the sign will be hanging down, reminding you to check the car roof for bikes.

MITCH

Store all of your junk in the garage so you can't pull your car in.