The Best Travel Writing 2011 - James O'Reilly [124]
First I heard it: a deafening crack! and metal grinding rock.
Then I felt it: the twisting bike frame violently wrenched away.
And then…freefall.
At least I was still breathing. I lay supine, staring at the unblemished sky like a kid lying in a field of grass. I didn’t feel like I was hurt. But then again, I didn’t really feel much of anything.
After an indefinite number of seconds, I gingerly unbuckled my helmet. I lifted my head, which felt heavier than a cannonball, and then I felt everything: stinging cuts all along my limbs, head pounding furious discomfort. I winced away the pain and dragged myself up into a sitting position, so as to assess my final resting place.
I was still on the road, only about twenty yards from where it happened, whatever “it” was. My bike had also managed to stay on the road. Barely. It was poised at the outer edge, teasing the cliff. The back tire looked like a pack of starving lions had attacked it in a Discovery channel featurette. As I pondered the tire, I heard the skid of another, behind me, and then the crunch of feet on gravel. I craned around to see who it was, ignoring my protesting muscles.
It was Cesar.
“¿Que pasó?” he shouted as he tossed his bike aside: What happened?
Still trying to ascertain that myself, I gave him a blank stare, which he took to mean that I didn’t speak Spanish. At this he sighed, pulled down his shades to look at my shocked expression, and then silently walked over to assess the damage—on the bike, that is. I continued to sit in the dirt while he clicked his tongue at the back wheel, as if the bike were a teenager that had taken the keys to the family car without asking. While he looked at the rubber, I looked down at my limbs, which I gratefully determined weren’t disfigured.
“You need a new tire,” he said with a thick accent.
After giving him the same blank stare, I started to laugh. “Obviamente.”
This was the only time I ever saw Cesar surprised—his dark brown eyes narrowed a second—and then his face transformed. The edges of his spiky black mustache turned upwards, and though a black kerchief covered his mouth, I could tell he was smiling. He walked over and extended his hand. Grasping my pale hand in his, he pulled me up.
“I’ll just get you a new one,” he continued happily in Spanish. “The bus will bring one.”
We sat by the side of the road, waiting for the tour bus to amble down the curves behind us. I told him I didn’t particularly want a new tire, that I’d rather walk than get acquainted with the ground like that again, thank you very much. He nodded his head appreciatively, but noted that walking would take much longer than necessary. When he switched the tire, it was with an ease that revealed years of expertise. I bet he could do it blindfolded and upside-down. Perhaps I could ride on his shoulders…
As he handed me the fixed bike, I hesitated. “I’ll be right behind you,” he reassured me.
“I’m not worried about in front and behind, Cesar. It’s the up and down I’m worried about.”
He laughed jubilantly and extended the bike again. I grabbed the handle and turned back to face the road. It stretched before me in false innocence, a relatively wide stretch. I realized with a sinking feeling that had I fallen on a slimmer section, I would be permanently married to the valley floor right now. I was very lucky. I probably wouldn’t be that lucky again.
By the end I wasn’t faring well. My back was aching from leaning over my handle-bars and my fingers could barely grasp the brakes anymore, their muscles shaking from fatigue. I had a cramp in my left calf. And my right one. Clumps of hard dirt leapt from my tires as I sped down, gashing my shins; my elbows were assaulted by the sting of liberated dust and stones. This road was beating the shit out of me, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get to the end of it. I had reached that critical point where terror surrenders to exhaustion.
I’d learn later that this