Years ago, I rode a fully Campagnolo-euqipped Legnano bicycle in Nova Scotia, carrying 40 pounds of camping equipment, tools, spare parts, and food.
One day, I was climbing a hill as the sun began to set. The drivers of the cars behind me could not see me because the sun was in the driver's eyes. I could barely see where I was going. Noting several cars trying to pass me, I decided to pull over to the shoulder, and let the cars pass. Instead of applying the brakes, I decided to let the bicycle roll to a halt in tall grass growing at the side of the road.
As I was rolling to a halt, I suddenly found myself in freefall, with the bicycle rotating to put the center of gravity at the botton. It turned out that the grass was growing on the side of a hill, and had hidden the shape of the terrain. I somehow immediately felt assured that I was not going to fall hundreds of feet. Instead, I felt that I should just pay attention to what was happening, and prepare for the landing. I fell about sixteen feet, and when the bicycle made contact with the steep side of the hill at the botton, I did a wheelie for a few feet in more tall grass, and then, my feet still in toe clips and straps, my bicycle and I fell over.
If I had not been wearing one of the very first Mountain Safety Research bicycle helmets, the back of my head would have landed on a very sharp rock, which might have cracked or even penetrated my skull. The helmet had a significant ding in it, but I was not injured. If I had been injured, nobody would have found me at the bottom. I was invisible to anyone driving by.
I had to dig toe holds in soft sand using my Detto Pietro cleated bicycle shoes to reach the road. The shoes were not designed for that purpose. As I dug each hole, I pushed the bicycle up about a foot, and squeezed the brake levers to hold it in place.
I have always wondered what, if anything, was going through the minds of the drivers who saw my front wheel emerge from the tall grass when I finally made it back to the road. My right knee was bleeding, but not badly.
The worst part of the entire experience was my arrival at a campground owned by an American, who required me to fill out forms while mosquitoes feasted on my wound. From that point on, I decided to stay at campgrounds owned by Canadians.
I spent a few hours nursing my wound at
Peggy's Cove, and decided that I should wait until next year to tackle the Cabot Trail, with its 4,000 foot hills, which I did. I have been told that Nova Scotia is still as beautiful as it was when I rode my bicycle around it, three summers in a row.
