Print

Email story

Comment

Email editor

Real Florida

The ride to ruin

On the bike trail, a minor distraction can lead to major discomfort and following your nose is not always a good thing.

By JEFF KLINKENBERG
Published May 26, 2005

	[Times files]
	Jack Nicholson's character in Chinatown, Jake Gittes, above, ended up with a damaged nose thanks to his curiousity -- and a couple of thugs. The nosy Times staff writer Jeff Klinkenberg, below, lost a piece of his schnoz, but he can't blame the bad guys -- his own wandering attention and a guardrail did him in.
	[Times photo: Willie J. Allen Jr.]

As much as I would like to think that I resemble Johnny Depp, when I look in the mirror these days the guy who frowns back is Jake Gittes.

Remember Jake Gittes? He was played in the movies by Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. Jake is a gumshoe, a private eye, but mostly he is a nosy fellow who asks too many questions. A bad guy with a switchblade almost cuts his nose off. "Next time," hisses the villain, "I'll feed your nose to my goldfish."

If anybody finds my nose over at Fort De Soto, don't use it for bait.

When I ride my bike, I am always careful. After two decades of serious riding I have been hurt only once, twice if you count the other day, when part of my nose got shaved off.

I was on the bike path, minding my own business, chugging north at a cool 90 rpm, averaging about 18 mph, working my lungs, working my heart, burning calories and feeling the burn. In short I could feel my middle-aged body metamorphosing molecule by molecule into Lance Armstrong.

Jake Gittes and his tortured nose waited around the bend. As if a guy on a bicycle weren't in danger already.

Florida is a scary place to ride a bike, mostly because of inadequate roads, heavy motor vehicle traffic and ignorance. The Tampa Bay area is especially daunting to cyclists. Even careful riders who obey all laws and do everything right bite the dust. I know at least a half dozen people who have busted legs and collarbones while trying to stay healthy.

I wear a helmet, never use headphones, never ride after dark, never run traffic lights, never hog the road and always ride with traffic, never against. I use hand signals to indicate turns and make eye contact with motorists.

I do have one fault. I am a nosy fellow.

I have a hard time keeping my eyes on the road probably, because there is too much to see off the road, in the trees, in the sky or in the water.

I am lucky I haven't been killed while driving my truck.

When I cross Tampa Bay on the interstate I can't help watching for dolphins. At Coffee Pot Bayou in St. Petersburg, I brake for manatees.

On State Road 60, between Lake Wales and Yeehaw Junction, I scan pastures for whooping cranes. Oops. Here's comes a produce truck.

On SR 70, between Arcadia and Lake Placid, I look for caracaras, beautiful cousins of the falcon, perched on fence posts.

Although I have driven off the road a few times, I have yet to hurt myself or anyone else. On a bicycle there is a smaller margin for error.

At Lake Kissimmee State Park some time ago, a bald eagle flew over the paved road. Pedaling hard, I looked up when I should have been looking down and ran into a curb. Sprawled on my back, panting for breath, it felt as if my limbs were ablaze.

Thousands of fire ants were feasting on my flesh.

Eighteen miles into a 25-mile ride, I was tired but feeling strong as I pedaled through Fort De Soto. I had made the turn north, which meant the wind was finally at my back. Now I could really pedal up some steam.

I sped toward a small bridge and started to climb, slowing to 15 mph. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a pair of fishermen, a father and son, on the bank. When my boy was small we launched our canoe at that very spot to begin our fishing trips.

The boy hooked something. Or at least that's how it looked. I did a double take. His rod was bent, and he reeled frantically, but I think he had a weed. When I glanced back at the road the guardrail was in the way.

Understanding that something unpleasant was in the offing, I yelled my head off the instant before I flew over the handlebars and crashed face-first into the wooden pilings sandwiched between the metal guard rails. I thought I felt teeth flying out of my mouth, though they turned to be only blood and spit.

The whole world stopped. Didn't black out. Reached into my mouth to feel a tooth swinging in the breeze. Tried moving my limbs. Nothing broken.

Yelled through the bloody teeth for help. Those two fishermen dropped their poles and came running. The dad had a cell phone and called 911. I climbed to my feet as blood dripped past my chin onto my mangled handlebars. Somebody else came along on skates, a nurse who bathed my face with cold water.

Ambulance arrived. Fearing a neck injury, the medics strapped me down.

At Bayfront, they cleaned me up. Stitched my mouth while I failed to keep a stiff upper lip. They noticed the one tooth that had changed locations. X-rays revealed no brain damage, no spinal injury, nothing but some pretty good bruises.

A nice chunk of nose was gone.

"It might heal fine," the doctor said. "But you can always have plastic surgery if it doesn't."

I am a born romantic.

I am sentimental about my nose. If you find the missing piece, give me a call.

Don't feed it to the pinfish.

- Jeff Klinkenberg can be reached at 727 893-8727 or klink@sptimes.com

[Last modified May 25, 2005, 14:33:02]