I was listening to my iPod so I didn’t quite catch what he said, but he shook his head after pulling ahead of me. Whatever. I made nothing of it, and just assumed he was pissed at something else, like one of the gazillion town cars in this part of town.

At the next red light I pulled right next to him and turned off the iPod. I wanted to extend some courtesy to a fellow rider, ask him about his ride. He just gave me a cold stare.

I asked him, “What’s up?”

“Sometimes you gotta save it for the other guy,” he retorted.

Finally grokking that he’s completely pissed at me and suspecting it had something to do with me passing him in the first place, I asked, “Why, what happened?”

Without letting me finish the question, he replies in an elevated voice, “You know what happened!” and then rides up 15 feet, ending our exchange.

Apparently, he got really mad at me and no longer wished to continue our acquaintance. I wanted to plead, to try to salvage what little is left of our shared experience, see if we have a chance. But I knew the wound is fresh, and this was not the right time.

Despite his arguing that I know what I did, I don’t. But I nevertheless felt remorseful for whatever it is that I might have done. I kept on his wheel for the next half-mile or so, giving him enough space to think things over, maybe reconsider his decision. But then I had to peel off. And he continued on his angry way.

And now I’m left, once again, rehashing my actions, his reactions, and how things could have been different. Should I have not passed him? Should I have used different words? Should I have tried harder to win him back? Really, he needs to know that I’m a nice guy and a courteous cyclist. In this world of lawlessness and town cars, I’m on his side. I’m a team player. I would save it for the other guy, if given a chance. I just don’t know what it is, or who the other guy is.

And so, I’d like to apologize to anonymous cyclists and other guys I may have passed and pissed, both in the past and in the future. And if you’re the guy from this morning, can we at least still be friends?

I suppose that this warrants an explanation. I was out on a solo 70-mile bike ride in Rockland County when, 15 miles before the finish, a 2-wheeled drifter on a carbon-fiber steed zoomed past me on a hill climb. He was obviously very strong, judging by his nearly effortless cadence and his zooming past me on a hill climb. Even as I was panting heavily at the top of my range, my pride got the best of me. I gave chase and caught him as the terrain flattened. After a brief respite in his slipstream, I pulled ahead, mostly because I like to prove my worth to absolute strangers. Not surprisingly, he remained on my wheel. As we approached a slight incline, I became winded and couldn’t quite maintain the brisk pace. So he pulled beside me, gingerly placed his hand on my lower back and thrust me up the incline. This at 25 mph.

Let’s pause for a moment. In the game of cycling, such a non-verbal cue is a clear signal. This dark knight was not racing me. He could have easily just glided past me, leaving me cashed in his wake. Instead, he offered cooperation. Without uttering a word he submitted that he’ll gladly scratch my back if I scratch his. Pacelining, after all, is a useful energy-conserving group-riding skill. I suppose there are other interpretations of the act. He could have been patronizing me, proving as he flexed his muscle that I was a non-threat to his cycling prowess. He could have been some personal trainer, and I was the lucky recipient of some weekend pro bono work. But I’d like to think that he was more interested in collaborating than in finding out who’s the better cyclist. And it was a simple matter of physics: I was in the front, drained of energy, while he sat in the back, invigorated. And he was more than happy to lend a hand.

In either case, I took the bait. I did not protest the contact. He pushed so gently and skillfully that I didn’t even flinch. With his arm-aided boost I was able to maintain the pace for another 2 or 3 miles. But then I was truly tapped, and I graciously gestured for him to take over. As he passed me, he did the unthinkable: he actually gave me a pat on the butt.

Let’s pause again to consider the butt pat. The pat was a few inches below where he initially touched me, so it was definitely a gluteal pat and not a lower-back pat. While it only lasted for a fraction of a second, I clearly discerned the firm yet tender touch of his bare hand through the thin membrane of my lycra cycling shorts. It was a simple pat, not involving squeezing or other risque gestures. I can only interpret that signal as a compliment on my ability to pull. Conventionally, a cyclist might acknowledge it verbally, with the words, “Good pull!” This ranger chose to be more poignant. And instead of being upset at having my personal space violated, I took it like a man. I welled up with self-pride and satisfaction.

I have to give this guy some credit. Not only did he choose to make a hand-to-butt gesture in lieu of a verbal comment, he also was insightful enough to anticipate my non-reaction. What does that say about him? What does that say about me?

After pulling for another few miles it was my turn to pull again. As I took over I did not dare to return the favor (although, in retrospect, that would have been quite amusing). I pulled the last few miles, up to the George Washington Bridge. At the end he passed by me and — lo and behold — gave me yet another butt pat! The last one was more powerful and momentous than the first, as it culminated the entire 30-minute partnership. I verbally thanked him for doing his share of pulling, and even wanted to talk to him, but he just rode off into the anonymous environs of New York City.

I followed him on the bridge path. After descending the ramp, he turned right, I turned left, and we parted, without a Bogartian sendoff or even a head gesture. I suppose if we still maintained the same proximity on the ramp, I’d receive another butt pat (I am not presently comfortable administering butt pats). But there was no such exchange. Our non-verbal partnership ended as abruptly as it began. It would now only exist in that brief moment in time on that stretch of road. And in our heads (I’d like to think that he thinks of me as I think of him).

I challenge anyone to provide an example where a butt pat would be considered socially acceptable without both parties ever previously exchanging a word. And yet cycling culture challenges such taboos. Cycling, and road cycling in particular, is a shared experience, experienced by individuals. Even though you’ve never met a cyclist, when you see one hammering down the blacktop at 25 mph, there’s already a lot you can tell about them. You can tell they’re passionate, willing to sacrifice an early weekend morning for a few hours of physical exertion. They’re competitive, respectful, and have an unusually high tolerance for pain. And they’re complete whackos. And if you pass such a cyclist up a hill and the stubborn idiot manages to hang on to your wheel, then it’s perfectly within reason to pull next to them and give them a good ol’ pat on the butt. They’ll actually appreciate it.

I remember a series of images of cyclists huddled around me, me protesting that I’ll ride back to the parking lot on my own, and a lady in an SUV handing me some baby wipes out of a yellow canister.

It had to happen. It was simply inevitable. Last Wednesday night, May 25, 2006, I went on the regular post-work Long Island 38-mile club ride, which just resumed in April. And at mile 30 I tried to make a left turn at around 20 mph in a small, quiet intersection. There was some sand and gravel, and I wiped out. Naturally, I quickly got up and moved the bike away from the road.

I remember a series of images of cyclists huddled around me, me protesting that I’ll ride back to the parking lot on my own, and a lady in an SUV handing me some baby wipes out of a yellow canister.

Next thing I know I’m staring at the top of an ambulance’s interior, lying on a board and wearing a neck brace. A male paramedic asked me to remember three items, “baseball,” “car,” and “house,” which I later recalled to him correctly but with some hesitation. The female paramedic was cutting my shorts to have a look at the road rash. I only made two requests: that it was her handling me and not the guy, and that she be firm, but gentle. The entire day — nay, the previous several months — seemed like a big blur to me. I had difficulty remembering the year, where I lived, or whether or not I was married. When I was asked my date of birth I gave it instinctively but wondered to myself if that really was my date of birth. As if another cognizant being was representing me, and me only watching events through thick, semi-translucent plexiglas. Is that what they call an out-of-body experience?

Two days ago I found out from Glen, one of the cyclists, that it took all of 15 minutes for the ambulance to get to the scene. Glen said that I was conscious throughout. I only recall a few seconds of that period. Stacey thinks it may have been a mild case of post-traumatic amnesia.

By the time they wheeled me into Room 1 of the ER at Huntington Hospital (5 minutes from where the spill took place), I already came to. I knew what happened. The admissions nurse came by and asked a few questions about allergies and personal history. A male nurse started sticking needles. He drew two blood samples for lab tests, inserted an IV catheter, and attached EKG leads to my chest and arms. Another nurse administered a tetanus shot. I only realized that I was hooked up to “the Matrix” some time later. The nurse also covered me with a blanket, either to keep me warm, or to prevent me from boasting my cycling thighs to hapless passersby, only slightly covered by shredded lycra shorts. The emergency doctor started to look at the wounds. Apparently, he didn’t think they were too serious because he quickly left. I mostly suffered a slight sting from the road rash and a pretty sore left shoulder.

The doctor ordered X-rays and a CT scan. He said that I’ll be wearing the neck brace until the tests clear. He was worried that I may have broken some bones. I was worried about Stacey. There she is, an hour away. She expects me home at around 8:30 on Wednesdays, since I usually finish the ride by 7:30 plus the additional commute to the Bronx. The phones in the rooms were not enabled for long-distance calls. So I finally made a big-enough fuss and the nurse wheeled me to the Nurses’ Station so I can place a long-distance call.

It took me about 5 minutes to convince Stacey that I’m in the ER and that I wasn’t actually kidding. She quickly recruited her sister to drive down with her to Long Island to come get me. The doctor already gave me some Percocets and thought it would be a bad idea to drive home alone.

Meanwhile, I was wheeled to Radiology for a cranial CT scan. The technician, hearing about my cycling mishap, introduced himself as an triathlete. He peered under the blanket, and shamelessly accused me of being a phony, since true cyclists shave their legs. We shared a laugh. Everyone was really nice.

They finally discharged me at 11pm. Stacey said I looked pretty bad with the neck brace and the scrapes. The doc took off the neck brace. He prescribed some Vicodin for the shoulder and told me to dress the wounds with fresh gauze every day. I left the hospital wearing torn shorts, my left arm in a sling, and a nice healthy road rash on my left side. I may have looked like I emerged from a war zone, but I felt like a million bucks (thank you, Percocet).

The big question always remained: where the hell is my bike? I found out from Glen that a woman that lived at the intersection was gracious enough to store the bike in a locked shed until I could pick it up. I called her up and arranged to pick it up when I’m back on the Island. In retrospect, it was good not having the bike. It prevented me from doing something stupid over the weekend like ride it (I had planned to do a nice hilly century in Hudson Valley). I also did a little post-mortem on my helmet. Despite the side impact, it had a nice set of cracks that indicate that it absorbed most of the impact and potentially saved me from something worse. A replacement helmet should now be en route from PerformanceBike.

So now, five days later, I’m recovering pretty nicely. The scrapes have scabbed and I may look worse than I feel. I might have to go for physical therapy for my left shoulder, but it’s improving rapidly. Let’s just say, the Vicodin more than made up for the pain.

I don’t know how long it will be before I ride a bike again (days, not weeks), but I can’t wait to get back on. This was the first time I was ever admitted into the ER, the first time I was driven to the hospital in ambulance. And it was… pretty cool. It was, I’m surprised to say, a positive experience.

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