There are so many intelligent and articulate people covering the hard-hitting
issues in our country these days, that I felt it was my duty to cover the
rather inconsequential bullshit that tends to make up the vast majority of
our lives. Actually, I'll just be griping a lot which, if you weren't aware,
doubles as a synonym for complaining, and as a descriptor for
a sharp pain in the bowels.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010


I'm not talking about the teachers of half of my unobserved faith. No, I'm talking about my newly founded organization: Runners Against Bad Biking Individuals (RABBI). That could probably use a little work. Edit: I changed "idiots" to individuals. Also, bad-biking might connote that they are bad-ass, but really it's a grammatical shortcoming implying that these bikers do not excel at biking. I really wanted it to be abbreviated RABBI as you can tell, but perhaps RAPBI is not bad either, though potentially confused with bisexual or bipolar rappers.

That's a little non-sequitury, even by my standards so allow me to explain. See sometimes I like to focus on really positive stuff that I enjoy, like taking a bum shower outside a bar in a thunderstorm but the fact is, for the time being, the most prominent thing on my mind is getting rear-ended by a biker last night while running. Not a motorcycle, a bike-bikes-bikecycle. Who gets hit by a bicycle? I know, I've repeated this very phrase many times since last night when this occurred.

The story is less homosexual than a lead in like "getting rear-ended by a biker" may originally have insinuated. So there I was, doing my thing on the Lake Shore pedestrian and bike path, my thing being running, when I thought I'd go around a couple of women walking in front of me rather than maintaining my full speed and slamming into their backs. Seemed like common courtesy, and I do this quite frequently, every day while walking and running in fact, amounting to tens of thousands of times even. The guy on the Specialized road bike behind me apparently has a different concept of etiquette, deciding instead to slam straight into my back. Oh those points of contention. Now even though I was simply navigating around a couple of walkers, I did look behind me because asshole bikers are always riding much too fast and much too close to myself and others. Didn't matter as I didn't see the guy and I guess he didn't see me. I get wanting to move quickly, I do it myself occasionally, but this is a shared path, and not really the place for it. Those damned shared free spaces and their idea of rules. I was probably in the wrong.

Lucky for the guy on the bike I am a total pussy and completely broke his fall, leaving he and his bike unscathed. I asked if he was okay, and he me, seeming awfully concerned that I was training for something. I said no, as if it would make a difference either way. I suppose he might have felt a little worse if I had said yes, but that won't heal my body any faster and I don't think he'll be covering my medical bills. I just found a snapshot of the path where it went down (I was going in the other direction, not that it matters).

So I took it left knee first and since it's a paved path it took a lot of my skin off, including a delightful chunk out of my inner right arm. I like to say it looks like Jared Leto in Requiem. It's an exaggeration, but when it was still bleeding I think it was pretty spot on. The thing is, as pissed as I was from having road rash, oozing wounds, and a really swollen knee, the guy who hit me wasn't a bad guy or anything. I just don't know why he was biking so fast and, more importantly, into my back.

So, to keep this an entry you don't want to read and view during a meal, here are a couple of dinky photos from photobooth.

What up ribs?

The crowning achievement.

Photos of my knees just came out blurry and my left knee is so swollen it looks like a fake shadow. No matter.

After the collision I limped around for a little while at which point, since I was still two miles from my apartment, I decided I ought to just jog it home. My left knee got a little stiff, but otherwise it was all good. As blood dripped down my legs and from my right forearm and sand-covered road rash adorned my ribs, I took pride in being met with periodic cries of "Jesus Christ" and "What the fuck?" as I cruised home. Perhaps pride is the wrong word. So with my future as a forearm model in serious jeopardy, I'm off to go investigate some other career options.


  1. I am taking donations now. These can be in the form of a new knee, skin grafts, and sticks (for placing in bicycle spokes). Also accepting, in the words of Randy Moss, "straight cash homie."


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