Another One Bites The Dust

Yes, I have sent yet another cherished watch to the junk pile… The Wenger was with me for many adventures and accompanied me on my various travels. It has been diving in Catalina, helped me to teach sailing in Newport, plummetted off of the Circus Circus bungee platform, and has kept me on track for this past year in Japan (among many other things). It was a faced paced round of Duck-duck-goose that finally did it in. I dove for the vacant spot left by the goose, and BOOM, the band broke.
This is not the first time that a watch of mine has died a violent death. When I was living on Picasso Avenue, I lost my Spider-Man watch (limited edition Fossil) in a similar incident. A group of us had just come back from a party on D.P. to our pad, and noticed that Diane was missing. She was last seen drunk, and talking to a couple of guys, so we were obligated to go retrieve her before she got herself into trouble! Me, Steve, Brian, and Chris jumped on our bikes and took off toward the coast. I decided that going down the ramp would only take away more precious time, so decided to jump the curb, between two cars, and join the convoy on the street.
My bike came down in an ungainly angle, and the impact between my front tire and the pavement catapulted me down over the handle bars face first. The impact was a hard smackdown, that I can only describe as “black”. With great effort I pushed myself up and uttered the words that would be used to mock me for the following months “I broke my watch!”, oblivious to my own state. It was completely smashed beyond any hope of repair. Bits and pieces of the obliterated face reflected the dim yellow glow of the streetlights, the braided leather band snapped in the same place. My bloodied jeans were frayed threadbare at the points of impact, a testament to the power of friction.
The sting of roadrash over my face, right hand, arm, shoulder, hip, and knees accompanied he realization that I was bleeding, and my chest hurt. I limped inside, and Brian took off to find Diane. They returned immediately.
I went to the bathroom and pulled out the good ‘ol hydrogen peroxide and cotton swabs. It took 30 minutes to sterilize all of the wounds and to scrape all of the small rocks and grit out. Everytime I applied the peroxide, it really hurt, so much that I would scream out in pain. This was followed EVERY TIME by waves of laughter, followed by insincere statements like “I’m sorry but its really funny”, or “we’re not laughing at you!” followed by more laughter. What good friends huh, laughing and making fun of my agony!
For the next couple of weeks I looked like the recipient of a good thrashing. Slowly, my wounds scabbed up, the scabs peeled off, the pink new skin got tanned, and I recovered. However, for months my chest still ached, and Brian and Chris took potshots, jabbing me in the ribs whenever an opportunity arose. My father visited some time later, and after inspecting the pain, he told me that I had broken my rib. Of course once they found out, this made the bastards laugh even more.
Moral of the story: Not only is BUIing (Biking under the influence) against the law, but it can be very painful physically and psychologically. But after a fall, you must get back up and ride again! With practice and perserverence, one can learn to BUI in a safe and controlled manner, maybe.
Well, its time to get a new watch. I can only hope that the next one will fare better than its predecessors…