Not my turn...

Number 14? She looks up. Me? Number 14! they call again. She's not ready yet. She tries to gather herself. He looks down at the clipboard again. Oh, I'm sorry. We don't need Number 14. It's 140. Sorry about that. Close call.

It was four hours into her 5 hour ride. Things were going well. It wasn't her fastest ride yet but she tackled a lot of good hills. Making her stronger for Ironman day. It was a road she'd ridden a thousand times. Narrow. The shoulder drops off into sand and gravel. A half mile long. She'd biked it every week for 3 years. She knew the road and how to handle being passed by semis, dump trucks, SUVs.

He didn't see her. Or he just didn't care. He didn't slow down, exceeding the speed limit by at least 20... not uncommon on this road. He didn't leave her any room. He passed by and she startled. Then she saw the boat he was hauling. She swerved to avoid being taken down by the boat. At 20 mph, she fishtailed into the gravel and the front wheel caught the lip of the asphalt throwing her into the road. She heard the brakes screeching. She landed on her elbow and slid across the asphalt. It all happened so fast. She rolled over and saw the front end of the black pickup truck. Inches. It felt like inches. She scrambled up, pulling Triksie to the side of the road.

Her elbow hurt. She looked down at the blackened skin and the funny bump that had formed. She moved it around assessing her range of motion. Bones seemed intact. The older man got out of the pickup looking almost as stunned as she was. He was driving behind the guy with the boat and saw everything evolve. "Looks like you've got a flat tire", he said. "That I can fix", she replies, holding her elbow. "I saw you swerve and I slammed on my brakes. Are you OK?", he said. "Yes, I'm OK." she says. "Thank you. For not ...running me over," she says, with all sincerity though when it comes out the words don't sound like enough. He gets back in his truck to leave and she hobbles around a bit holding her elbow.

She pulls her phone out and dials. "Where are you?" she asks, knowing he is not too far behind. "Shea," comes the reply. She begins to explain what happened. She doesn't want to bike home alone, unsure if she can put weight on her arm. Her throat is closing up. Things are beginning to turn black. She ends the call and sits down in the gravel with her back to traffic. She begins to cry now. She's not hurt. Not seriously, anyway. The pain is not bad enough to warrant tears. But she can't stop crying. She gets up, still crying, and begins to change her tire. She assesses the damage. Triksie has shredded bar tape on her left handle bar. And the tire is shredded in two areas, but if she can inflate it without popping the tube, it should be OK for the rest of the ride home.

She gets the new tube set and another truck pulls over. A guy hops out, "Save your CO2, I've got a pump. I saw you had your bike upside down," he says. "Thanks," she says, hoping the sunglasses are hiding the tears stained on her cheeks. She keeps her elbow turned away, not wanting him to see. She wants to be alone, and not have to explain why she's crying. He pumps up her tire and asks her where she's biking today. "Rio Verde," she answers, "out to 9 mile and back." He says goodbye and gets back in his truck.

She looks down the road and with no sign of him, she decides to try to make it on her own. He'll catch up eventually, she knows. She walks to the bridge. She cries for the first 2 miles. She can't seem to stop. The skin on her hip and her forearm are stinging, but she's not hurt. She's alive. She's thankful to be alive. The tears dry up and she slowly bikes toward home. He catches her with about 5 miles to go. She tries to explain, but there are just no words. Inches. The screeching tires. She can't close her eyes without seeing the fender of the black pickup hovering over her. They finish the ride. 82.6 miles.

She gingerly pulls her bike jersey off, careful not to brush her arm. She pulls on her running skirt and shoes. The first few steps are painful. Damnit, she thinks. Just when her injury had been on the back burner and she was running well again. Her hip hurts. It's out of whack again. She runs 4 miles. A minute per mile slower pace than last week. But it's done. And now it's recovery week. She needs a recovery week. As the day wears on, she finds new wounds. A cut and bruise on her right forearm. A large, painful bruise on her right knee. Road rash on her left shoulder, hip, knee, and ankle. And the elbow, which she can't look at without feeling nauseated. She tries to scrub the wounds as best as she can. She puts some ice on her elbow. She gives in and finally takes a Tylenol before bed. She is hoping that she will sleep better. Or that at least she won't ache for a few hours.

Exhausted she falls into bed earlier than normal. She closes her eyes but can't get the image out of her head. And the fan doesn't seem to drown out the screeching tires adequately. Tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes. She holds onto his arm tightly. It's not my turn, she reminds herself. Not today.