Skip to main content

Tuck, Roll, and Rain

In this episode, the interactive obstacle course of the San Marcos bike path. (Sunday, April 12, 2026)

It started out as a beautiful day for a ride—our usual 30-mile Sunday trek to Escondido. The weather was moody, with brooding dark clouds threatening rain, but the streets were mostly empty. The traffic was light, and the bike paths were eerily quiet. It gave off the distinct, yet entirely false, illusion of a peaceful sanctuary.

We were headed home, and I had settled into a smooth, hypnotic cadence on the path across from Palomar College in San Marcos. I was listening to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field, minding my own business, and dressed to be seen. Between my colorful jersey and my cherry-red vest, I was illuminated like a human traffic cone. You could spot me from low Earth orbit.

Apparently, that wasn't visible enough.


Up ahead, I spotted another cyclist. He was cruising along in a state of pure, unhelmeted zen—completely unburdened by the earthly concepts of peripheral vision or spatial awareness. Following standard protocol, I gave my bell a clear, friendly ring to announce I was passing. In the cycling world, this means, "Hello, I am approaching." To this gentleman, however, it translated to, "Please, by all means, execute an immediate and violent swerve directly into my path.”


My instant reaction was a loud, desperate "NOOOOO!" But as it turns out, physics is stubbornly immune to negotiation. The collision was spectacular. In a fraction of a second, I transitioned from a peaceful Sunday cyclist into an amateur stuntman. I launched over the handlebars, tucked, and executed a hard roll onto my left shoulder against the unforgiving pavement.


When my momentum finally stopped, I tried to stand, and a wave of agonizing pain reminded me that I am, in fact, not a stuntman. I stumbled around in a daze, performing a mental inventory of my limbs to see what was broken. My right leg was scraped and bleeding in three places. My right hand was a bloody mess. Behind me lay my poor bike, its seat twisted and handlebars knocked completely out of alignment.


Lori, who had been riding behind me, pulled up. Seeing the blood and the wreckage, she was understandably frazzled. And what of the guy who had blindly swerved into a glowing red, bell-ringing cyclist? He surveyed the tangled metal and the bleeding rider on the ground, clearly deep in thought. Finally, he offered this profound nugget of wisdom: "I should probably wear my helmet."


A brilliant deduction. Truly, a modern-day Sherlock Holmes.

Having solved that mystery, he followed up with an offer: "I have a van nearby, do you want me to take you home?"


"No," I said.


Because getting into a stranger's van after they’ve just blindly run you off the road is exactly how every great true-crime podcast begins. No, thank you.


After taking a long, steadying drink of water, we wrestled my twisted bike back into submission. I climbed onto the saddle and started the long pedal back. Because the universe has a wonderful sense of dramatic timing, it was right then that the sky finally opened up. A torrential downpour began. 


Honestly?


The biting, cool rain felt incredible. It was a sharp contrast to the dull ache throbbing in my shoulder, and it washed away the dust of the crash as I limped my way home.


I made it home without further incident, except for searing pain when stopped at a stoplight. The pain in my chest and shoulder was intensifying. After we checked me out, we found a deep bruise blooming on my chest and another on my left shoulder. Miraculously, nothing was broken. When you think you have "smooth sailing" on the supposed safety of a bike path, remember today's ride.


Bike paths aren't sanctuaries; they are interactive obstacle courses. So many people are entirely wrapped up in their own little bubbles. Never assume the guy in front of you will continue straight. Accidents happen when you least expect them, usually at the hands of someone who isn't expecting anything at all.


Keep your guard up, wear your brightest colors anyway, and always be ready to tuck and roll.


I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, be attentive, and never underestimate the blind stupidity of another.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

Back to School (Without the Triple Lindy)

I hadn’t set foot inside a public library in over thirty years. Last Saturday, when I walked through the sliding doors of the modern County of San Diego branch on Eucalyptus Avenue in Vista, my eyes instinctively scanned the floor for the familiar, comforting sight of varnished oak cabinets and brass pull-handles. Nothing . No card catalog. No little wooden drawers. No rows of index cards typed by someone who presumably had beautiful penmanship and a pension. I walked up to the front desk, looked the librarian dead in the eye, and asked with complete earnestness: "Where’s the card catalog?" She didn’t laugh, though she had every right to. Instead, she offered a warm, dry smile: "We magically had the computer digest it." And just like that, I was enrolled. Not the Rodney Dangerfield kind of back-to-school. No diving board, no loud blazer, no campus party, and thankfully, no need to convince anyone I belonged there. Just an overdue reminder that while I was busy with ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Beyond Facts-The Deep Dive

✨ In this episode, Beyond Facts: Reimagining School–in the Age of AI . . .   This week's podcast is a bit different; it's another example of how Artificial Intelligence (AI) can offer tools to creatively enhance your analytical presentation of information. We took this week's blog and copied it into Gemini with the question, “If a story is to work, it must, on some level, create an illusion of escape and also achieve a goal simultaneously. Does this apply to my blog post that follows?” What's created is not just an analysis of the writing, but an AI-generated discussion produced “On the Fly” - Enjoy! Did you know that the word "school" comes from the ancient Greek word scholē , which originally meant "leisure"? Not a rigid schedule or droning lectures filled with "facts," but free time for thinking and conversation. To the Greeks, learning happened best when life slowed down—when you had room to reflect, to ask questions, and to wrestle ...
4 comments
Read more

Doc Welch - The Country Doctor

In this episode, Doc Welch . . . Many authors have characterized life in rural Illinois over the years. Among the more notables are Edgar Lee Masters, who wrote Spoon River Anthology, Carl Sandburg for his poetry and biography of Abraham Lincoln, and little known to me until recently, my first doctor, whom everyone in town always called Doc Welch - James K. Welch, M.D.  (Feb. 7, 1915, to May 5, 1998) While exploring the microfilm of the Cuba Journal (published from 1884 to 1992), I consistently kept running across articles entitled The Country Doctor. This intrigued me. Doc Welch was a third-generation practicing Country Doctor in Cuba for over 40 years. His father, James William Welch, M.D., practiced medicine in Cuba for more than five decades. His grandfather, James Knox Welch, M.D., settled in Cuba after the Civil War. Cuba, Illinois, is a small, rural farming community in west-central Illinois, where I grew up. Like many small towns, it boasts a central square with a ban...
4 comments
Read more

The Rhythm of the Woodpecker

The morning in Vista often begins under a heavy, gray marine layer that rolls in from the coast, pressing a damp, muffled stillness over the neighborhood. At 4:30 a.m., the driveways are still full. The local commuters are either blissfully unconscious or stumbling blindly toward their showers, clinging desperately to their last shred of peace before the nine-to-five grind claims them for the day. I, on the other hand, am voluntarily wide awake in the dark. When your agenda consists of absolutely nothing, it is critical to get an early start. Inside the house, the quiet is profound, broken only by the sharp, mechanical click of the kettle as it reaches a rolling boil. I stand at the counter, watching the dark ground coffee bloom as hot water hits the French press's stainless steel. The smell is sudden and heavy—a deep, roasted-earth aroma that cuts through the morning fog. I push against the plunger’s gritty resistance, pouring a cup that radiates dark, stinging heat against my pal...
Post a Comment
Read more