A Knee-Jerk Reaction

This morning marked our first outdoor ride of 2012 – and with it, my first injury of the season!

We decided to start out relatively easy – Brent’s been riding a bit, but I haven’t been on the bike more than a couple times since Nationals in October, so we laid out a course that would carry us over  30-40 miles on relatively flat terrain to allow us to shake out our legs and rebuild a base.

We started off down into the Wissahickon park to take the gravel towpath toward the 8.5-mile Art Museum loop that circles that Schuylkill River.  Just before we hit Forbidden Drive, though, Brent suggested we check out a newly-opened stretch of trail.

The three miles of rolling single-track had recently been regraded and smoothed out, so instead of negotiating the sharp craggy ascents and descents, we flew through the first few kilometers, gliding along the gentle slopes.  Brent missed the more technical terrain, but I was loving it.

Eventually, we turned off onto an older trail and bumped along the rocks and roots, dodging the hikers, runners, bikers, and dogs who were enjoying the warm January weekend.

And then…

I was trying to navigate around a sharp gnarled turn, when my front tire caught on a rock.  My handlebars jerked to the left as my body continued moving forward, and my knee jammed into my stem.

The hit was so hard that I doubled over, unable to breathe.  So hard that my kneecap instantly turned black and blue.  So hard that my odometer – located on the other side of the handlebars – spontaneously restarted itself.

Awesome.

I caught my breath and gradually continued on.  I walked a little more than I ordinarily would have on those trails, and I took each pedal stroke a bit more gingerly.  But we made it down to the towpath without incident, and as we picked up speed it gradually loosened up.

We continued to revise our route as we went, and by the time we returned home a couple hours later, we’d covered 32 miles, a mix of technical trails, wind-burning flats, and quad-groaning ascents (there were probably a couple descents, too, but they were less memorable).

Brent and I both agreed that the ride felt far longer and harder than either of us expected.  When we set out, I was contemplating a trip to the gym later this afternoon for some speed work, but by the time I crested the final hill, it was all I could do to spin the file few blocks home and drag my bike into the basement.

A couple hours, a hot shower, and a Wawa veggie hoagie later, I was lying in front of the TV, icing my knee.

Because really, what’s a little swelling if not the perfect excuse for an afternoon of snoozing on the couch?

Reclaiming Our Woods

Last week, out for a routine morning run on the Wissahickon trails, a seventeen-year-old girl from our neighborhood narrowly escaped an attempted sexual assault.

As the high school student was running out of the park, a man – knife in hand – grabbed her from behind and tackled her, pulling down her shorts and trying to force himself upon her.  She fought him hard, clearly taking him by surprise with her ferocity, and was able to free herself and run back toward the more populated Forbidden Drive.

Police are speculating that the attacker is the same man who has been linked to three other rapes – and one murder – that have taken place in Philadelphia’s Fairmount Park since 2003.

For the remainder of that week, anywhere I went I heard people talking about it.  Getting my hair cut, picking up groceries, meeting a friend for coffee, I could tell that it was in the air.  People were anxious.  There was an added weight to every exchange.

Yesterday morning, for the first time since the incident, Brent and I returned to our local trails.  We ran a familiar five-mile loop and, even in the light rain, passed a dozen other hikers, dog walkers, and runners (not to mention one very rugged horseback rider).

We didn’t talk about the attack as we headed into the woods, but on our way back out of the park, we realized we were both feeling guarded.  We looked at each person we passed a little bit more closely, a little bit more warily, a little bit less warmly.

It wasn’t that I was afraid (as I know I would have, had I been running alone).  Instead, I felt angry, violated.  Someone had invaded our trails, our woods, our community, and had turned it into something different, foreign.

Brent said he’s been daydreaming about coming upon the guy and “getting him.”  I have visions of spotting him  from my car and calling the police.

I don’t want to give into the fear and stop running in the woods, but I also don’t want to be cavalier and assume that it won’t happen again.  I know that these sorts of events can happen anywhere.  And I know that in the coming weeks and months, we’ll all lose some of the edge we’re feeling right now and return to some kind of normalcy.

For now, though, I continue to be guarded, continue to be mad, and continue to keep an eye out as I drive through the park, looking for the man with the hood covering his face…