It’s time to reflect on how easy it is to take my health for granted, because once again I’ve thrown my back out. This is partly a consequence of bicycling many thousands of miles– bicyclists are prone to certain types of injury, and this is one of them. But before you suggest I stop bicycling, let me tell you some injuries and diseases that bicyclists are NOT prone to: Diabetes. Heart disease. Arthritis. Depression. Cancer. Car crashes. Bicycling protects me from diseases that are associated with sedentary lifestyle and car culture. I’d rather risk ulnar nerve entrapment, IT band issues, lower back pain, and the possibility of a broken collarbone than a chronic disease or serious injury that destroys my quality of life.

Don’t get me wrong– bicycling neither dooms you to certain ailments nor guarantees protection from others. I bike a LOT, and I’ve learned how to reduce the risk of many injuries and crashes– clearly, I am still learning!

And now that I’ve moralized and alienated half my readers, let’s return to my reflections on health.

When new bicyclists tell me they are worried about slowing down traffic, I lecture, “You have a right to the road. You’re not inconveniencing anyone more than a couple seconds. Take your time, don’t let yourself feel rushed.”

Getting on the bike with a lower back injury was a bit uncomfortable, but manageable. The first slight rise in the road astonished me (and my back)! I’m not used to thinking of that small rise as a hill, and I had to shift all the way down. The next surprise for me came when the light turned green as I was waiting in line with several cars before and after me. I usually follow the cars ahead of me closely through intersections, but I couldn’t keep up. I felt awkward about slowing down traffic, and had to tell myself, “Take your time, don’t let yourself feel rushed!”

Bicycling with a lower back injury was a good reminder of what it’s like to be a slow, uncertain, and wobbly bicyclist. It improved my compassion and empathy for new bicyclists.

When I’m healthy, I take pride in biking slowly. Using my lowest gears, I can climb hills without breathing hard, breaking a sweat, or passing someone out walking his dog. I take pride in my endurance, my ability to bicycle for long hours, knowing that I’m slower than most bicyclists (and faster than most couch potatoes). Bicycling with a lower back injury showed me how strong and fast I am ordinarily– stronger and faster than I realize.

Take a moment to appreciate your health. Don’t take big risks, like sitting on a couch or in a car. Protect your body with a happy, active lifestyle!

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To get to the other side.

Most chickens can cross once and they’re on the other side, but not so at Bernadette and Stadium. Chickens are supposed to cross THREE roads to get to the other side. Each road has a pedestrian refuge in the middle, so it takes 6 light cycles to get through the whole thing.

I decided to try it out for myself.

Standing in front of Drury Inn, I looked across at the gas station on the other side of Stadium Blvd at the intersection of Stadium and Bernadette. I biked here, so I will wheel my bike along as I cross each street.

I start the stopwatch. I push the button for the WALK signal. I wait for it to change. The light changes and I walk south across Bernadette. I have about 10 seconds. Almost immediately my light starts blinking red. The red hand stops blinking and turns to a solid red “DON’T WALK” as I step into the pedestrian refuge in the middle of the street.

I’m not walking slow, I’m not rushing either. If I were an elderly person, or in a wheelchair, walking slowly for any reason, I wouldn’t make it across before DON’T WALK. If I sprinted, I might make it beyond the pedestrian refuge and across the entire street before DON’T WALK.

I angle my bike so that it fits inside the pedestrian refuge, a narrow path between raised concrete curbs to isolate me from the traffic. I push the button for the WALK signal. I wait. It changes and I continue south to finish crossing Bernadette. Again, I have barely enough time at my moderate pace to cross before the solid DON’T WALK signal. After 3.5 minutes, the first leg is done.

I won’t bore you with pushing the button, waiting for the light, crossing halfway, repeat. If you are bored reading about it, imagine the tedium of the experience. This isn’t a pleasant amble through green forests and chirping birds. It’s vigilance for the moment the light changes and a mad dash and vigilance in a vista of concrete and poles listening to engines humming and roaring.

At the last corner, I point my bike north and a young pretty panhandler joins me. A bit embarrassed, I try to explain to her that I’m conducting an experiment. Then I realize how silly it is for me to feel self conscious around a panhandler. “I’m timing how long it takes to go through all these lights since there is no crosswalk to get from the hotel to the gas station,” I explain.

“Oh, I usually just wait until traffic is clear and just go,” she says helpfully.

Of course she does. ANYONE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND would do the same. And if she were unlucky enough to get hit, we could blame her because she was, after all, jaywalking. How did the engineers who designed this intersection not know that people needing to cross there would do exactly what this bright young panhandler suggests?

The panhandler tells me about the people she’s met during her journey and the crazy and amazing things they are doing, as if my experiment fits into the same category as rock climbing in every state or bicycling across America.

We reach the northeast corner of the intersection 9.5 minutes after I started. It has taken me nearly 10 minutes to traverse 356 feet– nearly the length of a football field. If I’d done what the panhandler recommended, I’d have traveled less than 1/2 the distance in 1/6 time.

The experiment yielded data, sure, but it also yielded an experience.

You never know what will happen when you cross the street.

Last year my dad and I bicycled 1400 miles, for 6 weeks, to 40 Missouri State Parks. This year my friend Scott and I planned to bicycle 1400 miles, for 6 weeks, to 28 Missouri State Parks and State Historic Sites. Last year our route took us all over Missouri. This year our route was St. Louis to Kansas City by way of the Bootheel– the perimeter of Missouri.

We were 203 miles, 7 days, and 3 State Historic Sites into our tour when disaster struck. Scott didn’t see the broken pavement at the bottom of a steep hill (thank you, St. Louis County Public Works). He went airborne, over the handlebar, and landed on his shoulder, separating it. He and his bike needed repairs. The tour was over.

It was not a bad tour. It was a failed tour. The distinction is important.

The walls of Sparky’s Ice Cream Shop in Columbia, MO are covered with thrift store art. The owner and collector explained in a TedX talk why he collects thrift store art and what the difference is between bad art and failed art.

“I dislike the term ‘bad art’… I don’t call them bad, but I’m okay with the word ‘failed’. Failure is interesting, and it’s a normal part of the process of becoming an artist. But artists usually fail in private. So when I come across one of these paintings for sale, I feel like I’ve been allowed to see something rare that I was never supposed to see… Bad art is when the skill dwarfs the ambition. Gigantic technical ability plus no big dream except to create the same product over and over and over.”

A ‘bad’ bicycle tour would be one where someone started off to do it, inexperienced and unprepared, and gave up after 2 hours or maybe stuck it out for a couple days. The best moments of bicycle touring come after serious suffering. You have to suffer to get there, to get to that Perfect Moment. You can’t do that in a couple days.

This wasn’t a ‘bad’ tour. We tried, we suffered, we experienced some glimpses of Perfect Moments.

Our skill and experience definitely did not dwarf our ambitious tour. We had a big dream, if not gigantic technical ability.

Ours was a ‘failed’ tour. I’m proud to let you see something rare that you were never supposed to see. Failure is interesting, and I love things that are interesting, like abandoned buildings in ghost towns, in run down areas of cities, and in thriving business districts. Abandoned buildings are full of mystery and history and interesting.

I want to try again. I want to ride the Iron Curtain and the Bicentennial Trans-America Route. I want to experience the suffering that yields up the Perfect Moments, to experience the appetite that kicks in after a couple weeks of struggling and low energy and makes the simple act of eating a spiritual experience. That’s what our ‘failed’ tour left me with, a desire to try again and again.