I learned about cycling from that:
the dubious blessings of a split shoulder.
The Spill
It was a cool morning on my second day of cycling in Flanders. I was on a dedicated cycling path, near to Kortrijk at the epicenter of the Spring Classic cycling races.
I had joined some club cyclists to ride some legendary routes along with the Cannondale professional team. Towards mid morning I was starting to get tired and I fell a little behind the group. But a buddy, someone I had met the previous day had slowed down for me, and I was now drafting him so that we could catch up to everyone else.
So I was cycling hard about two inches behind his back wheel, taking advantage of his wind shadow. That meant that I could go 15-20% faster for the same effort.
Then, as I looked up, I saw the flash of a cyclist coming in the other direction. Startled, my cycling buddy braked and then swerved. I remember seeing his back wheel cross my front wheel, and then force it to the left. Instantaneously, my bike followed the front wheel and I flew right. A sudden rush, a momentary blackout and I came to, lying face up in a ditch, looking up at a…
