I’ve never been anything but clumsy. My childhood was spent with skinned knees, broken limbs and an occasionally obscure wound—like the time I scratched my cornea and had to wear an eye patch for the whole summer. I can recount 25 years of clumsiness by mapping out my scars: the one that looks like the state of Florida is from falling on a gravel playground when I was eight, the one next to it is from college when I tripped down the stairs at the The Wheel, the line across my index finger is from the time I sliced it while chopping vegetables, and the one on my hip that looks like a thumb is from an unfortunate incident involving a Slip ‘n Slide.
It’s been awhile since I’ve had to deal with any injuries as a result of my clumsiness. This might be because my level of activity has significantly decreased in recent months, so there are fewer opportunities for me to inadvertently hurt myself. But last Friday, in a rare moment of motivation, I decided to go for a long bike ride—the first of a new daily biking routine I planned to implement. Feeling confident despite looking like a complete dork in my helmet, bike shorts and fanny pack, I headed out, determined to get worthwhile exercise.
I followed the bike path near my house for a couple miles but I wanted to challenge myself with some hills, so I veered off the path when I spotted a narrow sidewalk that would lead me up a big hill. Huffing and puffing by the time I reached the top, I paused to make sure I didn't pop a lung, and to gaze at the down hill coast that would be my reward after climbing what felt like Mount Kilimanjaro. As I tried to catch my breath, I thought of the time my dad taught me to ride a bike without training wheels.
I was about six years old and as I watched my dad take the training wheels off of my purple polka-dot banana seat bike, I wondered if there was a way to take one off at a time because going from four wheels to two wheels seemed unreasonable in my opinion. Shaking and unbalanced, dad pushed me up our long, winding driveway. When we reached the top, I remember looking down the hill and thinking it would be easy—all I had to do was coast. “Ready?” dad asked me. He gave me a push and ran next to me, occasionally reaching out to grab the back of my bike and steady me. I heard him yelling, “Go, Quinnie, go! You got it—!” When I realized he was no longer behind me and I was riding my bike, with no training wheels, like a big girl, I got excited and lost control, which caused me to leap from my bike like it was on fire. It took awhile, several skinned knees and a few tears, but I eventually learned how to ride my bike without training wheels.
Once I was done reminiscing, I took a swig of water and started downhill, relishing the wind against my face. I spotted a large puddle ahead—a mix of water, grass, moss and algae—and I figured I could just coast right through it, as long as I didn’t hit my breaks it would be okay, I thought. But I was wrong. As soon as I hit the puddle my bike slipped out from under me and, lacking any real balance to begin with, I ended up skidding down the remainder of the hill on my knees. The moment between acknowledging the danger of falling and then actually falling always seems to happen in slow motion for me and I usually surrender to the fall instead of fighting it, resigning myself to injury. I stood up, covered in mossy, grassy, puddle poison and looked around to see if anyone saw me wipe out—there were a few people, but it didn't appear as though they saw me fall (or they did and were just pretending not to). So I brushed myself off and acted like nothing happened as I got back on my bike and rode the ten blocks home covered in puddle poison and blood.
When I got home I called Steve, my boyfriend, looking for sympathy.
“I fell off my bike and hurt myself!”
“What? Are you okay? Where are you?” Steve seemed flushed with concern, at first.
“I’m at home now but I am not okay. I think I’m going to have to amputate my knees…”
“Baby, it can’t be that bad.”
“It is! I can hardly move! And I fell in a puddle of crap that’s probably infecting my cuts now!”
“Hahahaha…I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just that…well, the thought of you falling off your bike is funny.”
“I know. Shut up.”
I probably would have laughed at him if he fell off of his bike—falling is funny, I don’t care who you are, how you do it, or how hurt you get. And since I’m known for my clumsiness, I am used to being laughed at. You can always count on me to be the one to run into the sliding glass door because I didn’t realize it was closed, fall down the stairs while wearing a dress, or drop a tray full of drinks because my feet got in the way of my walking, again. On any given day, I have a fresh bump, bruise or cut to serve as evidence of my clumsiness and remind me of my painful lack of grace.
After the fall, I sent my sister this picture of myself to which her response was: “AHAHAHAHAHA! YOU ARE SO CLUMSY! YOU FELL OFF YOUR BIKE?! THAT’S HILARIOUS! HAHAHAHA!”
It’s been three days since my biking accident and I’m still hobbling around. I really can’t remember the last time I was in so much uncomfortable pain. Every time I bend my knees it feels like I’m falling all over again and I’m beginning to see the bruises under the cuts, which makes me look like the pariah of the produce aisle—the bad apple no one will buy because it’s bruised, discolored and covered in flesh wounds. As I said, I used to skin my knees all the time as a kid—sure, it hurt, but I would be picking at the scabs a few days later. Clearly my bounce-back ability is not what it used to be, which makes me feel old.
Perhaps there's a class, a pill or some sort of remedy for my inherent clumsiness that I just don't know about...? In any case, I need to look into it because I think I'm getting too old to be this damn clumsy. And at the rate I'm going, the inscription on my gravestone will read: "She could trip over flat surfaces."
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