It was the day before my third triathlon, my longest race to date, and everything was in order well ahead of schedule. I had packed my bag that morning, going over the transitions from swim to bike and from bike to run several times in my mind. The triathlon was a couple of hours away so it was important that I not forget anything.
The early start time of the race required me to drive down the afternoon before and then spend the night in a nearby hotel. My friend, Christy, was to accompany me. The plan was to leave at 2:00 p.m. and roll into town after a nice, relaxed car ride at around 4:30. We would go to the race venue for packet pick-up, attend the pre-race meeting, scope out the location and then have a nice carb-heavy pre-race dinner.
After gathering my various racing gear, I packed up a cooler with drinks and some snacks for the road. Ready for the trip with several hours to spare, I poked around, tending to various household chores.
At some point in the early afternoon, Weaver said he was going to run out for a few minutes of freedom before I left him to face our four children alone for the next 24 hours. He needed provisions to make it through his stint. Specifically, he needed coffee. Lots of coffee. Not a problem, I told him. It was 1:00. I wasn’t picking Christy up until 2:00.
At 1:03, Weaver returned to the house, looking sad and forlorn. “I backed over your bike with my truck,” he said.
Oh yes, I thought, everyone’s a comedian. Like the time when he was supposed to pick up the kids and he called me, saying, “Kids? What kids? I thought I was supposed to pick them up tomorrow?”
Ha, ha! So funny!
Or the time when he was supposed to put an important package in the FedEx box for my closing the next day and he returned to the house saying, “Package? Huh. I was supposed to mail a package?”
What a jokester!
I wasn’t going to fall for that tired old prank this time.
I looked at him. He looked at me. And then he said, “No really, I backed over your bike with my truck.” And . . . I came to the sudden realization that Weaver had in fact backed over my bike with his truck.
So the thing about triathlons is that there is a swimming portion, a running portion, and, most importantly for purposes of this discussion, A BIKING PORTION. Needless to say, a bike is kind of a crucial piece of equipment for said biking portion. Another thing to note is that said bike should be rideable.
Unfortunately, there are no bad words, at least none that I know, that will fix a bike that has been run into by a truck. I know this to be true, because I tried out every bad word I could think of, and the utterance of not a one of them, at any volume, resulted in a fixed bike.
So I immediately transitioned from bad word mode to panic mode.
It’s at times like this that you tend to think things like – wow, wouldn’t it be great if I had a friend who builds custom bikes for a living, lived only three miles away, was home and was willing to drop everything to magically and quickly transform my damaged bike into something that I could safely ride in a race without killing myself.
Then I remembered. Yes! I actually do have such a friend!
So I drove over to Adrienne and Victor’s house in a tearful frenzy. One new wheel, an inspection and a little metal bending later, my bike was deemed safe for riding, one small crack notwithstanding.
Everything turned out okay in the end. I made it to the race venue in time for packet pick-up and the pre-race meeting and I did not kill myself in the bike portion of the event.
On the homefront, Weaver (smart guy!) never once suggested that I might share just a teeny tiny bit of responsibility for the accident since it was me who leaned the bike against his truck in the first place. And he didn’t say a word when the post-race bike repair, which consisted of a new $20 part, ended up costing a whole lot more than that after all my upgrades were added in.
So now my bike is better than ever. A new metal part PLUS new wheels, new tires, new red handlebar wrap and some very cool aerobars. Yes, the pricetag on guilt is a little high at the Hickerson house.
And, just a hunch, but I’m guessing that going forward, Weaver is going to be a whole lot more diligent about checking behind his truck before he backs up.
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