The most embarrassing day of my life

"What happened?!?"

My hand is bleeding out right in the center of my palm.  Looking up at Reed, all I manage to say is, "Uh."

"Uh??  Are you okay?"

Sitting on the soggy cement, I begin to pull myself together.  Snail slime seems to have completely enveloped my front and left sides, and I have to pick the gravel out of the gashes in my hand before I can try to wipe any of the slime away.  My brain needs to catch up, and I obviously need to explain myself.

"There was a deer.  A deer!  It jumped out and ran right in front of me!"

Immediately after the words escape my mouth, I realize how stupid they sound.  You'd think that after living here for a few years I would be able to remember that the largest wild animal you're ever going to see in the Netherlands is a squirrel.

With a completely justifiable amount of incredulity, Reed attempts to confirm what he's heard: "A deer?"

It's too late.  I can't turn back.  If I eat my words now, there's no way he'll ever believe anything else.  "Yep.  A deer.  Just popped out of the trees right in front of me."

Still eyeing me suspiciously, he says, "A deer?  I didn't see a deer."

"Well, how would you have?  You were way up there on your bike and the deer was way back here!"

"All right.  How's your hand?  Your pants and jacket are all torn up."

Standing up slowly, I examine my clothes.  My jacket is indeed torn under my left arm, and there are many small holes speckled along my left leg.

"My hand is fine.  Let's just go home."

As I lift my bike from the ground, I see that the front wheel is very seriously bent, and both brake cords have been completely ripped from their sockets.  I'll need at least a hammer before this is going anywhere again.  Turning back to Reed, I give my best guess as to how far it is to town. 

"Well, what do you think?  Four miles to Hengelo?"

"Maybe more.  I don't think we're even half way back yet.  What does it matter now?"

"What does it matter?  Obviously it matters!  It's getting cold, and I need a ride."

"A ride?  Where?  In my limo?"

He's making this difficult on purpose.  "No, on your bike!"

"Last time I checked, this is definitely not a tandem bike, bro."

"What, you expect me to walk five or so miles back to Hengelo?  C'mon!  You have that rack on the back for groceries!"

"But what about your bike?  Are you just going to leave it here?"

"No, I'll ghost ride it.  You pedal, and I'll hold it off to the side with one hand.  Duh!"

Sighing in frustration, Reed very audibly grumbles, "This is stupid."

With one hand resting very masculinely on Reed's shoulder, we make our way back to Hengelo.  After the third person to wave and whistle at us is out of view, I try to lean a bit further away from Reed in order to salvage some pride.

"Stop leaning back like that!  You're making it impossible to pedal this thing!"

"Oh, sorry," I say while leaning back forward.  "I guess I'll just start doing my princess wave for all the people who are honking at us.  Can we stop for a second so I can switch my bike around to my left hand?  My right arm is getting super tired."

"Are you kidding me?  I'm not stopping this thing!  We need to get off the side of the highway before the entire city decides never to talk to us again!"

"All right, well you had better pedal harder then!"

Reed's silence makes my bad joke evident.

After having run my jacket and pants through the wash for the third time, there's still a palpable film of slime covering them both. 

"I don't think this snail-and-worm-gut residue is ever going to come out!  Just my luck that we had to be biking home right after a rain storm."

"It rains like every day, dude."

"Yeah, but not usually that much."

"If you say so.  So, a deer, right?"

Jerking my head around to look at him, I see him smiling wryly in the corner.  "That's right."

Lying in bed, I think back on the events of the day.  The bike ride between Enschede and Hengelo had become unbearably dull until today, when legions of snails and worms had made their way onto the bike path after a few days of rain.  Trying to weave through and around as many as possible, I begin to guide my bike with only my left hand.  Success! How does it go with only my right hand?  Success again!  What about no hands?  Ahh, yeeeah, I'm awesome!  Maybe I can't swerve quite as well without any hands on the handlebar, but still not too shabby.

Hey, how well can I steer my bike with only my right hand on my left handlebar?

And that, in the words of this author, is a wild Dutch deer.

"What happened?!?"

My hand is bleeding out right in the center of my palm.  Looking up at Reed, all I manage to say is, "Uh."

"Uh??  Are you okay?"

About as okay as a person can be after deciding that an oh-such-a-ridiculously-terrible idea is in fact a good idea without any further thought.

Mudblood Rising

For an hour I've been listening to the rush of the wind through the branches. It's been causing the canvas bag above our heads to swing back and forth like a small corpse this entire time. I can feel the dirt of the day turning to grime against the sweat of my cheek while on my right Jori is still sleeping soundly. A gust of wind draws my eyes back toward the canvas sack as its branch groans under the extra weight. All of our food sits nestled in the bottom of the sack; well out of any greedy animal's reach. I continue straining my ears for the sound of a bear's plodding feet, but am again disappointed. Instead my ears are met only by the sound of the wind. It's growing louder.
Strangely, the wind seems to be getting especially louder on my right. It's probably the sound of rain pattering on the leaves. Surely enough, before I can think to react, the first drop hits my face. I hope in vain that it will pass quickly as it steadily intensifies. My mind wrestles with the decision of whether or not to wake Jori, but as drizzle turns to downpour I know that within seconds I will no longer have a choice. The tarp on which we're lying is supposed to be wide enough to fold over as cover, so I tell Jori to hand me the opposite corner. He doesn't hear me. I raise my voice and say his name again. A lack of reaction forces me to finally yell, "JORI!"
"Hmmm..?"
"Dude, it's raining. Hand me your corner of the tarp."
"Huh?"
Frustrated, I lean toward him and say again, "It's raining. Give me the tarp!"
Jori rolls over, grabs the edge of the tarp, and rips his arm through the air back toward me. Unfortunately, my face hovers directly in the path of his elbow. Not having noticed that he may have broken my nose, Jori immediately falls back into a deep slumber. I tuck the tarp snugly under my side and lie back down. I can smell the iron-rich aroma of blood curdling in my sinuses. Soon I will feel its warmth on my upper lip. I set my head far back on the ground in the meager hope of staunching the coming flow, but to no avail; within seconds the blood is running down both sides of my face. Rainwater is forming a pool under my sleeping bag; I can feel it seeping through and onto my back. I arc my back in order to avoid its wet chill as mosquitoes flock to the wet heat now smothering my face. I'm trying to swat them away without removing the protection of the tarp, but I have to give up as this proves impossible.
Miserable. I have nowhere to go. No tent. No gauze for my nose. No mosquito repellent. I find myself staring blankly into the plastic draped over my face as if it were a starless night sky. If it weren't for the blood gushing profusely from my nose I know that I would be smelling the strong scent of dirt-stained plastic. I try to focus on something else. Anything else. But instead I keep questioning myself as to how I got stuck in this plastic bag filling with mud and my own blood.

Unsuccessfully Shouldering the Slippery Slope

The weather today is ideal. My breath drifts away in elongated clouds every time I exhale. For years I didn't have the opportunity to come up here to the mountains, but today I have finally returned with a few of my best friends. I've felt a bit rusty so far after having been away from the slopes for so long. My brother had told me that the Hidden Lake lift was replaced by a newer, faster version, and I'm glad not to have been disappointed. A ride that once took 20 minutes took us only five today.

As we approached the top of the mountain, I had asked, "Where do you guys want to go? Over to Sunrise like we used to or just cut around below the lift?" while simultaneously pointing to our various options. 

Church leans over the bar, swivels his head in several directions, and says, "What about over there on the right? We've never been there before."

"Sure we have. I've been along there a few times," I reply.

"Maybe you have, but not with us."

I nod my head while thinking about my many former snowboarding buddies and look over at Kelsey. "How about you, Kels? Which way do you want to go?"

She shrugs. Typical Kelsey. I appealingly see no one on the trail off to our right, so I make the decision. 

The three of us slide off the lift and plop down in order to bind our loose feet onto our boards. I ratchet my right binding, careful not to get my leather gloves caught in the clasps. I stand up, slide to the edge of the slope, and wait for Church and Kelsey. Expecting them to momentarily come to gliding stops on either side of me, they both blow past me and down the hill. It's steep. I watch proudly as Church and Kelsey both carve their way perfectly down the sharp decline. I can hardly believe how awful they were when I first began to teach them several years earlier. The powder is thick and everything blurs into white nothingness. The snow flakes are small, light, and coming down in thicker torrents now. Having learned how badly snowflakes can hurt the eyes while flying down a hill like this, I strap on my goggles determined to fly past Kels and Church. Everything has taken on a rosy hue behind the lens as I begin my descent. I carve around a few trees, realize that I'm fully comfortable again at last, and point my board straight down the mountain.

Kels is making her way down in perfect form as I pass her. Church sees me coming and tries to speed up, but I've already gained far too much speed and overtake him. I look back, grinning like a fool, and turn my head back toward my chosen path. I'm flying. No, really flying this time. This was unexpected; I am at least ten feet in the air. Time slows down. I must have flown right over a huge lip without having seen it. "Keep your board under your feet, stupid. You've gone over plenty of jumps in the past," I tell myself, but it's too late. I went over it far too quickly and without the proper trajectory; I'm flying through the air head-first. 

I land on the side of my head. I watch my rosy colored world crush into my face and then get left behind. I hear the white nothingness crunch like shattering thunder in my ear. Deep into my ear. I slide spread-eagle on my back for what seems like an eternity. I come to a stop and begin to sit up. I can hear Church coming towards me yelling, "Dude!" Nothing else.

Church, Kels, and I are sitting in my kitchen. Church offers me some popcorn. Reaching into the bowl as I take it, I realize to my wonder that the popcorn has become caramel corn. "Dude, where did you get this?" I inquire. He doesn't know. I look at Kelsey, who is lounging on a couch. A couch in my kitchen? "Hey, we can't have popcorn!" I exclaim. Church looks at me quizzically and asks why not. "Because we're snowboarding right now!"

I snap back to the now. My head is throbbing and my shoulder feels... like nothing. I try to sit up, but my shoulder suddenly feels very much like something; something very unpleasant. I remain prostrate instead. "Why is there snow up my nose...?"

Church laughs maniacally. "What? You don't remember?"

Kelsey tells me that I just had a wreck of fairly epic proportions. "No, I remember the wreck. My nose didn't touch the ground."

Church takes a break from laughing and says, "Yeah, when I made it to you you sat up and I nailed you right in the face with a snowball! Dude, I think you passed out!"

I moan slightly, tell Church that he's a moron, and try to sit up again. Pain shoots through my arm like a well aimed spike.
"Something is wrong with my shoulder. I need one of you to help me up."
Kelsey kneels in front of me as I grab her right hand. She tries to pull me up, but my shoulder refuses to go anywhere.
"I think I'll just lie here for a while."
"No, we need to move. Your shoulder is probably dislocated."
"I think you're right. So what do I do?"
A suddenly serious Church tells me that I just have to move it around in circular motions. That, he says, will probably pop it back into place. I procrastinate the inevitable action that I'll soon have to take and look back up the mountain. From here I can see the trail cutting straight across our run. There's a seven foot shelf sliced into the side of the mountain. Its edges glint menacingly in the daylight without the inhibition of my glare-blocking goggles.
I gather my courage and do what Church said, and hear a pop. My shoulder is welcomed with no expected relief. I lie back down... Church keeps saying something about how we should go... I feel like this is one of those rare times when I actually want to cry, but the tears which have been held back for years won't come.

Oma, My Saving Grace

It's Halloween in America, but here the streets are completely void of masked children. The moonlit cobblestones beneath my wheels force my handles to jerk back and forth. It's late, and the fog penetrates my coat, causing chills to run up and down my spine. Gurr is racing back toward our apartment at top speed and all I can do is struggle to keep up. I'm frustrated. Does he not realize that I can't pedal that fast? Without realizing it, my thoughts revert back to earlier in the evening when Gurr and I decided to embark upon this ill-fated journey.
"We have to got to Herkdestad. We can't not show up." Gurr tells me.
The best excuse I come up with is, "Yeah, but Herkdestad is 15 miles away and Anna is never home when she says she'll be. You know that."
"It doesn't matter. We have to go. It's an appointment!" Gurr sharply reminds me.
"You're just trying to waste time! Can you even get us there in the dark?"
"Of course. I've been going there for months, long before you ever came along."
I give up. I know that I'm only arguing for the sake of arguing. Really, we have nothing else to do, and I know it. "Fine, let's just go."
We lumber down the stairs and put on our shoes without any words. He violently jams each foot into his already-tied, very worn shoes while I painstakingly tie each of mine. The sun has just fallen beneath the horizon as we remove the chains binding our bikes to the light pole outside. I've been in Belgium for a full month already and have yet to buy a new bike for myself. I've been getting by on a spare bicycle that the locals have fittingly named a "grandma bike," due to its popularity among seemingly all elderly females. My particular version of the grandma bike is painted completely black with handles that curve upward, much farther than seems necessary, and then out to either side. The basket which hangs off the front always rises up and down in tandem with the loose handlebar, but somehow manages to remain attached during every ride. I've come to rely on this spare grandma bike to get myself anywhere and everywhere on time. For this very reason, I have fondly given her the nickname "Oma," meaning "granny" in the local Flemish tongue. In fact, my primary focus every time I ride Oma is to firmly hold the handlebar in place so that I can retain enough control to navigate the Belgian streets without hitting any car doors or real "omas" hobbling through intersections.
Once our bikes are free, we begin by cutting through our neighborhood until we have found the correct street which will lead us all the way to Herkdestad. Enough Belgians use this road for it to be privileged with having a smooth red bike path on each side. We set ourselves on the right side and commence pedaling in earnest.
It's a long road, but already I have come to recognize the landmarks along the way which signify the distance traveled. First, we cross the long, arcing bridge over the Prince Henrik Canal. We haven't been on the bikes long, so my legs aren't warmed up. I feel my quadriceps loosen as we race to the top. I know that within a few minutes pedaling will become easier as my body stretches and finds its rhythm.
I jealously watch shoppers go about their business at the Carrefour, a higher-end supermarket and my first landmark. I wish I had more time. Time to do whatever I want. Time to waste mindlessly at the park or watching TV. A middle-aged brunette woman is walking her golden retriever. The dog is beautiful and well-groomed; I can see the lines etched into his fur coat by a caring brush even in the dull glow of the streetlight. I wonder how often she walks him, but it's not worth dwelling on. I'll never see her again.
By the time we pass Fajar's apartment, my second landmark, I feel as if I could continue biking until the sun rises again. However, experience reminds me that this feeling will fade before we reach our destination. I'm still following Gurr closely as we approach my third landmark, a much larger-than-life poster of a gorgeous lingerie-clad woman gazing sultrily over her shoulder at all who wish to pass. "Don't stare," I think to myself as I guiltily cast second and third glances in her direction.
My fourth landmark means that we are very close. Not long after passing the orange boards blocking roadside construction, we take the turn into Herkdestad. In reality it's not very late yet. In the U.S., sidewalks and streets are still busy at 8:00 pm. In Belgium, the sun has been down well over an hour, so everyone has retreated into the warmth of their homes, closing their metal shutters behind them. The only other human figures which dare to be seen are mannequins staring blankly at us through their windows as we roll jerkily by. In a matter of seconds, we're away from the mannequins and their glittering shops as we burst into the town's main square. A church tower looms overhead, but there is very little light. The stars are becoming blurred by the encroaching clouds and only a few lanterns sitting atop iron poles dare to cast light onto the cobblestone plaza.
Sweet relief at last. Anna's apartment building stands on the left side of the street, one corner awkwardly jutting out into the sidewalk. In silence, we climb the steps up to the door. We buzz her apartment. No answer. We wait. Nothing needs to be said, so instead I buzz a second time to let Gurr know that I'm here and have decided to care. The speaker beside the door responds no differently to my attempt. I break our mutual silence by asking, "Well, should we wait?"
Gurr finds it acceptable to reply, "Yeah, let's wait awhile."
"Okay."
"Maybe she'll come soon. We should wait." Gurr reassures himself.
"I called her yesterday to confirm this appointment. Yesterday!"
"You know how Nigerians are. They're always late."
I nod my head in agreement while mumbling, "Uh huh." It's not Gurr's fault, but I knew this would happen. I knew it.
Gurr tries to console me, "Hey man, at least we held up our end of the deal, right?"
"Yeah, right." I grudgingly say.
Our conversation has reached its end as we find places to sit on the old stone porch. A half hour passes, and I look over at Gurr. He's staring confidently down the street as if he knows that Anna will soon appear. I'm determined to say nothing; I allowed myself to come on this pointless trip and now I will silently accept my fate. Finally, nearly an hour after the appointed time, a very dark, rotund woman approaches in a bright yellow rain coat which skims along the ground behind her. I can't help but chuckle; Nigerians are always a little too well prepared for the rain.
It's Anna, but she walks by without a word. I stopped caring some time ago; I just want to go home. Gurr takes responsibility by declaring, "Anna, it's us!"
Anna hurries quickly to the door before turning and asking, "Who?"
"The elders from the church. Remember?" There's a noticeable hint of despair in Gurr's voice.
"Oh, brothers! How are you today?" Anna's African English sounds like the crystal-clear chime of Christmas bells after an entire month of hearing only slurred Flemish.
Gurr continues by saying, "We're fine. We have an appointment for an hour ago. Have you forgotten?"
"No, no. I do not forget."
"Okay, but we've been waiting here for an hour. We came all the way from Hasselt." There is no mistake that even Gurr wants to impress the seriousness of this offense upon her.
"Yes, but I must working late. You see?"
I feel like the time has come for me to toss in my two cents, so I interject, "Yes, we see. Do you have a few minutes now so we can talk?"
"No, no. Very tired. You see?"
I'm done wasting my time and am already taking the lock off my bike as Gurr stands desperately watching her disappear inside the building. My only retort is silence as we mount our bicycles and pedal back toward Hasselt. My body is exhausted and before we're halfway back I'm counting every streetlight. "Keep going. The harder you pedal now the sooner you'll be in bed," is what I continually tell myself as we push onward.
Gurr is pulling ahead - far ahead. He knows that I'm falling behind, but this is his unvoiced retaliation to my silent anger. We reach the top of the bridge just outside Hasselt and my thoughts immediately snap back to the present. I can see Gurr's black figure flying down the bridge's slope and into the city just as I reach the top. On my way down I notice an old yellow car driving along a street off to my right. I'm a biker, and I have right-of-way. I see the driver look at me; I'm very visible with my yellow light clipped blazing to my basket. Still, I continue on my present course. I know he'll slow down. These Europeans seem to love driving like maniacs.
At the bottom of the bridge I realize it's too late. We're on a collision course and Oma's brakes are no longer in their prime. I pedal harder in order to speed up and miss the car. The car speeds up! What is this guy doing!?! Before I can react, he plows into me, sending me careening into the middle of the road. I'm lying on my side, and my only thought is, "I'm going to die! Some crazy fanatic is about to kill me! I'm going to die! This is crazy! I'm going to die!!!" The driver revs his engine in an attempt to crush me, but only manages to cause the car to rock back and forth. The front bumper comes perilously close as I reach up and try to push the car away. It seems to work! The driver again tries to drive over me, but is once again unsuccessful. As I'm still trying to kick the car away, Gurr runs up and begins to pound furiously on the yellow car's window. It sounds like he might break it. A short, dark-haired woman rushes toward us and screams at the man in the car as he goes into reverse and speeds away.
"Dude, are you okay?" Gurr frantically inquires.
"Yeah, I'm all right."
My suit is torn and my body aches, but I still stand up and walk toward what's left of Oma. The few people that have come realize that I'm up and walking and disband after I reassure them that I'm fine. Moments after gathering the twisted parts and folded wheels that remain of Oma, I understand. Oma being jammed under the front wheels of the car saved my life. Oma, not my futile kicking and pushing, stopped the car from rolling right over me.
I don't know what to think as I drag Oma through the streets back to our apartment. The pain in my leg is quickly growing sharper and forcing me to limp. I'm absolutely incredulous. What just happened is difficult to digest. My state of utter bewilderment is suddenly interrupted by Gurr exclaiming, "That guy was trying to kill you!"
"I know."
"Should we call someone?"
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"No. I really want to go to bed. Let's just not worry about it." I'm beyond caring, but Gurr persists.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."