Upon hitting a pocket of loose gravel, my bumbling self toppled over, in a flurry. The steel pedal wound into thousands of tiny stones, throbbing against my taut skin. Or so I thought. My knee spotted a patch, a layer removed, and fresh beads of blood oozed from the jagged, strawberry-colored oval. I slid my hand, under nylon shorts, to discover sizzling strips of burning red. My leg breathed fire. And my elbow. Smoked the road dust too.
I cradled my bike, against my torso, immobilized under the feverishly, torrid sun. But I arose, and heedfully set myself on my cycle once again. With only the stamina to continue seven miles, the stinging pains seized me to finally stop and tend to my wounds.
And perhaps I will steer clear of fallacious gravel pockets. Next time.
