Stale Fish: The Masters Wreck at Derby City

Artwork Courtesy of James Billiter

I covered my eyes.  I’m certain that’s where the realization set in that my friend and teammate may be paralyzed.  I paced.  I rested my head in my arms along the course fencing of the start/finish straight.  Little clips trickled into my ears.   “I’m a doctor.”  “He’s complaining he can’t feel…”  I didn’t catch the rest.  Emotion overcame me.  I spotted teammate Gerri on the other side of the course.  We had a good weepy hug as the EMT’s carefully went to work. 

Nate was stale fish on the ground.  They already had a collar around his neck.  I looked back, with his arms at his side, his legs shook.  Shock I presumed.  Fuck man, just fuck.  I wasn’t angry.  I feared the worst.  I didn’t want to make that phone call.  Someone handed me his glasses.  I snagged his Garmin off his bike and tucked both in my jersey pocket.  Gerri helped getting a plan together.  I hopped on my bike with inoperable brakes and coasted back to the start to collect my grid bag and thoughts.

As of this Monday morning, Nate spent the night at U of L Hospital.  An MRI showed a fractured vertebra in his upper spine.  Thankfully, he can move all his parts.  He was alert, coherent and concerned about his bike.  Despite complaining of intense shoulder pain, the news sounded somewhat positive.  Granted the possibility of surgery and rehab still looms, at the moment it appears our buddy Nate escaped the most serious of injuries.  Looking at his bike and helmet, it looks as if he sprinted into a wall at 30mph.  When I put the bike on my roof rack, the drivetrain was in the 53x17 gear. 

Derby City Cup Masters Wreck 1 by Kent Baumgardt

I saw the wreck unfold firsthand.  Despite the ruckus over the large mixed fields at the MudFund Derby City Cup, I don’t think those things had anything to do with it.  It was the simplest thing really.  A rider hooked a wheel at the front which cascaded into a chain reaction full-gas pile up. 

I personally knew 90% of the riders in the first four rows, and at least two more rows behind me.  Look at the call up list for Wave 6.  Granted not everyone on the list started, but all of those guys at the front, masters and juniors, are good riders.  Most of them I’d equate with sticklers for etiquette.  They know to hold a line and not to make unpredictable moves.  With the callups based on points, at least the first 8 rows were sorted by speed.  Additionally, throughout the last two weekends with Cincy3, every junior I raced with passed cleanly.  Between a bunch of USGP’s and Worlds, most of these guys have done this same long paved Louisville start at least 10 times.

Derby City Cup Masters Wreck 2 by Kent Baumgardt

Based on Saturday’s start, the first few hundred meters of the course were key for position in the race.  Everybody on that start grid knew we had a long paved start, a soft curve onto a long downhill straightaway.  From there, the course made a huge soft left hand U-turn before getting into the first pinch point on the course.  We all knew the position you held going into the first chicane was more or less within a few riders you’d have up the steps, through the first sand and over the flyover before you’d have another big chance to make passes.  Still I don’t think the speed at the start or the jostling for position in the first few hundred meters of the course was unusual or overly aggressive.  Yesterday, the wreck happened not much more than 120 meters or so from the grid, 3 or 4 shifts, and a mere 10-15 seconds into the race.      

Derby City Cup Masters Wreck 3 by Kent Baumgardt

I cannot say it was a bonehead move.  Someone hooked a wheel.  Only the rider who hooked the wheel in front of him knows the circumstances.  Maybe the rider in front hit a crack in the pavement or a rock.  Maybe that rider came out of a pedal or his hand slipped off his bars.  From what I remember seeing, the hook was subtle.  It was not a big sweeping move from right to left, more a matter of inches.  The wreck happened before the announcer’s trailer, way before the bend to the left and onto the grass.  I don’t know if the rider in front slowed, moved right or if there was something unseen that happened miliseconds before it caught my eye.  Regardless, two riders made contact.  The rider in back went down.  I don’t recall seeing the front rider go down. 

Front end of Nate's bike caved in

I started on the middle of the 4^th row.  My BioWheels teammate Mike was 3^rd row and to my left.  My teammate Steven was a row behind and to my left.  Nate, registering late, had a 92^nd call up.  With some no shows, I’m unsure of where he lined up on the grid.  In front of us was a who’s-who of the region’s top masters and a handful of seasoned juniors. 

At the whistle, a rider in front of me was a little slower off the grid, nothing unusual.  That held me up for a fraction of a second.  I got around on the right.  Clicking through gears, I remember seeing the two sides of the front open up.  The middle held more traffic.  Feeling the flow of the race drift to the left, I was now out of the saddle sprinting maybe just left of center. 

I saw the hook slightly ahead of me and just to my left.  A rider in front moved slight right to left and snagged the wheel in front of him.  I honestly can’t recall even a jersey color and would rather not speculate.  As he fell to the left, he went into someone else coming up from behind.  Those two went down and collected a 3^rd rider.  Three riders and bikes slid across the pavement in front of me.

Chris King Headset Cracked

You make split second decisions.  I was sort of boxed and heading straight for them.  At this speed, likely close to 28mph, there was no way I could change my line fast enough to avoid them and not take out guys on either side.  I threw my weight back, braked and aimed for the least obstructed part of the pile, the rear end of a bike in my path.  I didn’t make it.  I fell down on the other riders with my left side.  My bike rolled up and over.  I tried to curl up in a ball and cover my face.  The rider next to me did the same, hidden under a cage of frames.

Then the impacts came, seemingly endless, one by one.  Oof.  Ugh.  I caught a glimpse of Nate’s kit on my right.  Mmmph.  Ugh.  The weight of people on top of me compounded.  I heard a young man scream out.  Frames dug into my hip and body.  They just kept coming, hitting, landing, rolling over.  I worried about being crushed.  Boom.  Bam.  I could hear the crowd gasp.  My teammates Steven and Mike, starting more to the left, avoided the serious wreck, but got caught up in the course fencing.  Both got free and continued racing.

Crack halfway through downtube at BB

Then the bodies stopped falling on me.  With the clop of bike shoes on pavement, riders scrambled to pull tangled bikes off the top.  I shouted at someone, “Hey!  Hey!  Be careful.”  A call went out for medical.  I could see my shifter stuck in someone’s wheel.  As far as we knew, the race was still on.  From the ground, I helped to untie the bikes.  The weight was still heavy.  I just wanted to get out from under as quick as possible.  It was freaking me out.

It seemed like minutes passed, but I’m sure it was only seconds.  I was able to wriggle out from underneath.  Nate still lay on his back, I think propped half on top of a bike.  I found my bike along the fence.  The rear wheel had come out of the drops.  I fixed that, but couldn’t reattach the brake cables.  My front brake pads were stuck under the lip of the rim.  I was done.  That’s when I turned to see Nate.  The sight made me sick with worry.  I couldn’t leave him. 

While Nate does have insurance, copays and deductibles for a serious visit to the ER probably wasn’t in the fall budget.  Not to mention, his custom Indy Fab Planet X is ruined.  A fund has been set up to help him out.  I’m sure he’d appreciate your generosity.  Click here for more information.

Joe Bellante

Update as of 3pm 11/11 from Anna: "Final X-rays came back and no serious damage to any of the discs. A lot of ligament damage so he will be in a neck brace for awhile until that heals. Won't be going home yet today but hoping tomorrow. No surgery!!!!! Very happy. We want to thank all of you soooo much for all you are doing. We got the best friends in the world and so proud to be part of the amazing cycling community."

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.

Cyclist Fakes Road Rash to Look More Pro

"What's Up Guys?!"

Knowingly pining for attention he pulled up to the group ride with his bandaged drive side knee and elbow facing his group ride buddies asking “What’s up guys?”  “Aw man!  You okay dood?”  The eyes of his concerned buds were drawn to the hospital fresh woven bandage-sock over his “road rash.”  Unbeknownst to them, Joe Bellante of Cincinnati had hammered the hill on the way to the Hyde Park Square coffee shop so his espresso tan quads and calves would be bulging and glistening with sweat when he arrived adding to the pro effect of the bandages. 

Super Nuclear Pro Looking Band-Aid

“It looks like it hurts, but I have to say, that looks super pro,” said a teammate.  “Super Pro Joe,” another shouted.  The group laughed.  Joe waved it off saying something like, “oh it’s nothing but a flesh wound.  Just went down doing hill sprints at Devou Park last night.  I’m good.  Let’s roll!”  Under the guise of being injured, and looking ultra-super-duper-nuclear pro,  Joe pummeled the group into pithy writhing crybabies as he “won” every climb and town line sprint for the next 2 ½ hours with his bandaged knee and elbow.  In reality, everyone gave the bandaged guy a longer sympathy leash, exactly what Joe was looking for.

So Gory...So Fake!

It all started with putting his glasses over his helmet straps.  Then the whole pro thing cascaded into a white carbon frame, bar tape, socks and shoes.  Then Joe noticed the best riders in the world all sporting the road rash net: Levi, Boonen, Hoogerland.  You name ‘em.  It seemed as if all his favorite riders were toughing it out on the Tour De France roads with eye popping white bandages or some crazy colored tape over their knees and elbows.  “Now that’s how to look pro,” he thought.  He grabbed the Parmesan cheese grater out of the kitchenette at work and rolled up his pants leg.

A Metal File and Some Ketchup-Perfecto

He stopped short of self inflicted rash.  He wasn’t crazy.  He opened the fridge, grabbed the ketchup and walked back to his corner office where a $2.95 box of gauze and a roll of medical netting were waiting.  There he went to work on his Joe pro look.  The bottle made a farting noise as he squirted a coin sized blotch of ketchup in the center of a square, applied it to his elbow and rolled up a section of medical netting.  “Ba bam!  So pro!”  He said to himself looking in the mirror.  But who has road rash only on the elbow?  He did his knee as well, ripped the back of his jersey and dabbed some Heinz 57 near the hole.  To compliment the look, just before the ride he slid a square of gauze down his bibs on his right hip.  “Perfecto!”

HTFU: Hoogerland The F Up Bracelet

Shocking.  Tragic. Heroic.  Hoogerland makes the yellow jersey winning break, scraps with Voeckler for KOM points over numerous mountain passes, gets hit by a car, rag-dolled into a fence, shredded by barbed wire, miracurously remounts his bike and only after getting dropped miles from the finish line makes the time cut to claim the polka dot jersey in tears on the Tour De France podium yesterday.  Holy Hoogerland!  You just took HTFU to a ho…nutha…level. 

Hoogerland is now synonymous with cycling heroism.  Horner you get a close second buddy.  We all have our limits where we’d turn our bib number into the official.  I DNF’d in May at the Mohican 100 because I felt exhausted.  Even though I felt helpless, I could still physically pedal and steer.  Yet I chose to climb in the car versus struggling through the next 15 miles.  Looking back, worst case it might’ve taken me 2 hours.  Still, I rationalized that I could not go on, my goal was gone.  It wasn’t worth it.  What was Hoogerland’s rationalization?  A polka dot jersey?  Here he is carved up like a thanksgiving turkey by a rusty fence.  He looks like he survived a biblical whipping post.  He knows he got hit by a car.  His chamois has a trap door.  Where were the hysterics?  The only tears I saw were ones of joy on the podium.  It was almost as if there were no other option but to go on. 

Over the weekend I read a story in Outside magazine about the new Spot brand rescue beacons which are being marketed to through-hikers and backwoods adventurers and the namby-pambies who’ve hit the rescue button because of cold toes or over exuberant snoring from tent mates.  You laugh, but how many times have you given up on a race because of something ridiculous like exhaustion, a spat of road rash, a broken pedal?  It’s no different.  In the light of Hoogerland, HTFU just got a lot harder.  Hooger The F Up is more like it. 

That’s why for the limited time price of $19.95 plus shipping and handling you can have your very own Hoogerland bracelet.  It’s stylishly polka dotted.  It cannot be cut with barbed wire and will always get you to the time cut in time to stand on the podium.  It’s guaranteed to shut off all processes of rational thought and will make sure you finish what you set out to do.  Wear the HoogerTFU bracelet for those days when you don’t want to ride because it’s too hot outside.  HoogerTFU!  Wear it as a reminder that you can walk home when you break a chain.  HoogerTFU!  Wear it as a reminder that as long as you have a heart beat, can pedal, see and steer that you’ll always finish your race.  

FRI KFC Sizzling Over Compton Wreck

In a press release today, FRI KFC, Female Racers Integrated to beat Katie Fucking Compton rejoiced saying, “every other woman in the world just got an extra fucking point next weekend.”  With her weekend wreck in Boulder (click here for news), Katie Fucking Compton will likely take 2 to three weeks to recover and not race again till the USGP in Ft. Collins Colorado the weekend of November 13^th and 14^th.    

According to a poll of organizers of this weekend’s upcoming races, lap times in the women’s pro race should go from 7 minutes and 30 seconds to nearly 8 fucking minutes.  “Riders who used to get lapped by KFC will now have a fucking chance of finishing on the lead fucking lap for once in their fucking lives,” FRI KFC’s snarky Spokeswoman, Colonel Sandy, said on her twitter account in just under the 140 character limit.  For the more caddy ladies on the CX grid, that’s finger fucking licking good news.  The press release went on to say, “in addition, women who finished on the tail end of the payout scale will now likely get $20 instead of $10, which coincidentally is enough money to buy a consoling bucket of KFC, two sides, and a slice of Chocolate Chip Cake.” 

Seriously Katie…get well soon.  We know you’re a sweetie and we’ll miss you out there.

Turkey Attacks Bike, A Conspiracy Brews

Turkey’s are taking over the world, according to yesterday’s article in USA Today.  It’s foul!  With wild turkey populations on the rise and the hot gobbling love of Turkey mating season upon us, they’re breaking into bakeries in Nebraska, suicide bombing semi-trucks in Tennessee and now have taken up drumsticks against cyclists in Ohio.   While it remains to be proven that Turkey’s have a carbon fiber fetish or that this Turkey outburst against cyclists could be a thanksgiving related conspiracy in retaliation for traditional Thanksgiving beatdown epic rides followed by eating lots and lots of turkey, the occupants of the car in the photo are thankful to have survived the flap.  While it may not make the TV drama, “I Survived,” the guy who recently bought my old kick-ass Jamis Xenith Pro and Best Bike Blog Ever fan, DF, had a face to feather encounter with Wild Tammy Turkey in Eastern Ohio.  In, more or less his words, here’s DF’s story on how the Turkey became his new water bottle and how a 16 pound bike became a 36 pound delicacy.

Dateline: Athens, OH

So, my wife and I were en route to Athens, OH on route 32. The turkey was sitting in the median and decided to take off at a very bad time/direction. I saw it pass over head and then heard the very unsettling crash. It was basically the same sound you hear when you run a bike into a parking garage.  Which I've done…too.

There was a car in the right lane that I had just passed.  II bet they’re at home telling some sort of interesting story right now.  It took me about a quarter mile to pull over off the highway and this is the sight (photo) that greeted me when I got out of the car.

The Jamis is my bike.  As you can see it was basically covered in blood, guts, and feathers.  You can see some of the entrails hanging off of the back wheel. The turkey's heart came out and ended up resting on my window wiper on the back window.   (Collective: EWWWWW)  I'd imagine the poor girl never knew what hit her.

The front crossbar on the roof rack was pushed back about six inches on the right side. The bike rack holding my poor Jamis is trashed, although it held up well enough to get the bike home after the application of some bungee cords. The rack holding my wife's bike was bent due to the movement of the front crossbar, but seems to be functional. Her bike escaped fine, other than being covered in the left over turkey remains.  (Collective: EWWWWWW)

Currently, my bike is up at BioWheels Bike Shop. As of now, it looks like the main damage is to the fork. One of the dropouts is bent. The bar and stem seem to be okay, other than just being whacked out of position. The verdict is still out on the frame, so we'll have to see how that turns out.

Only three days later, DF saw the article in USA today and realized, “Clearly I'm the victim of some greater turkey-related conspiracy.”  I agree DF.  I smell a conspiracy too…a juicy 12 pound cranberry and gravy covered conspiracy.

Of course, immediately after the photo was posted on Facebook, the caption contest began.  Here’s the large photo followed by some favorite captions:

BC: The New Shimano Flight Deck

JM: That’s Foul

CA: Who Wants a Drumstick

WF: Hey Honey, Got KFC for Dinner!

CM: What Do You Mean This Isn’t Under Warranty?

RT: Is That UCI Legal?

DR: I Think You Need A New Water Bottle

RA: And You Were Worried You Might Forget About The Bikes And Pull Into The Garage

MH: Got Taken Out On The Road By Some Turkey

SM: Anybody Ever See a Turkey Hump a Bike? 

KC: One Shot Of Wild Turkey Coming Up

CM: I Was Just Riding Along

CB: Where’s the Stuffing?

MS: Gu Just Wasn’t Giving Me The Boost I Needed

AB: When Turkeys Attack!

TBBBE: I Told You, You’d be able to drop all the turkeys if you bought my bike.

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.