Clomp, clomp across the Golden Gate bridge in a Bay Area 10k race that began one week ago with a crash on White Mountain. I am bicycling 1500 miles from Canada to Mexico along highways #101 and #1 on a Peugeot PX-10. ´Bikeman!´ is relayed for two weeks up and down the Pacific coast to ward off logger trucks on narrow mountain highways. Bikeman is my CB handle, a grasshopper on wheels in bug Walkman earphones with a 5´ Radio Shack antenna stretched ahead off the handlebar.

In the shank of a golden California evening churning the cranks through the Redwoods along bike pathless Highway 101 the road climbs, zeniths in a roadside splash of wildflowers, and I coast down the other side with the wind whistling in my ears and feeler. The grips tighten, and as the speedometer dials to 35mph a rabbit in the meadow catches my eye so the fraction arch of the brow starts a wobble that on trying to correct intensifies into a violent frame shudder that the brakes amplify. The front tire catches the soft dirt shoulder, stops, and I shoot over the handlebars as if shot out a cannon. A tumble skid back and forth across the asphalt and earth leaves a bloody ten yard exclamation!

At the dot I find my feet but it is difficult to walk. Blood streams everywhere on bare skin except the tennis shoes, shorts and curly hair. The bike front wheel is bent at 30-degrees like a flapjack that made only three-quarters the flip, and the remainder is in standard post-wreck condition of gimped stem, twisted seat, luggage strewn in a line, and paint chips everywhere. I sit by the bicycle along the roadside like a faithful dog. I don’t know what to do. There is little money. I am far from anyone I know. My body hurts all over. The sun is setting. A siren sounds in the distance…

A fire engine, patrol car, ambulance and sheriff arrive in a fifteen minute window from a 911 call by a good Samaritan passerby and suddenly I´m surrounded by multi-color flashing lights and concerned uniformed men. The cool sheriff takes charge and on learning that I have no wherewithal for the hospital or hotel, advises all to leave except the fire truck to which the bike is strapped to the bumper, and he allows me on a blanket into the front seat of his patrol car. We cruise down White Mountain to the nearest little burg where he pays for a room for which I´m grateful to this day.

The room offers a wall mirror in which I play doctor – patient. You feel fine, just look bad. I shine a light in the right eye of the mirror and determine there is no concussion. The pulse is stringy with shock but evens to 60. Blood covers 80% of the skin with dirt and grime stuck like flies on good flypaper. I release the patient to the shower and it must be cold to wash off the blood and seal the bleeders. On emerging there is a clearer picture. Scrapes and scratches cover 30% of the skin, so I take the first aid kit consisting of a one-ounce bottle of Methiolate and dab all the raw spots I can reach, lay a towel on the bed, and collapse.

The next morning I pick up a couple bottles of Methiolate and one large of pink Calamine lotion for poison ivy from the roadside tumble. The bike won´t be fixed for another day, however the sports page announces a marathon at the Golden Gate Bridge, so I board a bus to watch. Yet on arriving on the north side a number is pinned on my chest and the race director ushers me to the frontrunners saying it will be good publicity to have a Pink Runner in the lead for a few seconds.

We´re off and in the first minute a hundred runners breeze by shouting ´Go Bikeman!´ I am 70% pink in black tennis shoes, a running advertisement for Methiolate and Calamine in a 10k race. I lose ground on downhills where the skin is stretched and jars with each step, and gain on uphills where the bubblegum scabs don’t bounce. Bikeman!´ chant hundreds of spectators four-deep along the south ramp of the Bridge as runners sprint and slap my back until the blood flows to the tape.

After the finish there is another, as I hitch a ride back to the repaired Peugeot, and another on the bike to Mexico, and then another… wherever the last one lands me.