This happened

During the first summer I lived here, Ron and I took a bicycle ride to the reservoir west of town. We plugged and panted, pedaled our way up the road by the dam, turned around, and flew back down. Flew is a metaphor. On the ride home, we raced. I was on a heavy, old Schwinn Continental that I've owned since I was in high school. It was 1981. We weren't wearing helmets. On Birch Street we were riding fast. Every time one of my legs pushed down hard on a pedal, my hands pulled up hard on the drop bar handlebars. The quick release hub on my front tire must have been loose. As I pushed and pulled, the front tire came off. The chromoly fork blades planted in the pavement; and as the blades folded, I rolled over the handlebars, onto the pavement, landed, still rolling, on my right shoulder and came to rest on my butt in the road. The force of the roll almost stood me up on my feet. Ron and I processed the fall. I knew what day it was. I knew my name. No blood was leaking from me. So Ron road his bike home to get a car, and I collected my tire and started walking toward home, rolling the bike on it's back wheel.