Cyclists — Beware of Parking Lots!
I didn’t and paid an awful price
Parking lots are full of innocent-looking hazards, officially called “wheel stops.” These five-inch-tall concrete blocks, placed at the end of marked parking spots, are meant to stop cars from protruding beyond their allotted spaces. They’re okay for cars; slightly risky for pedestrians, who might stumble over them; and seriously dangerous for cyclists, as I found out the hard way.
Living in a senior community in the San Francisco Bay Area, I belong to a cycling group where at 79, I’m one of its younger members. We do roughly 20-mile rides twice a week, meet for coffee at the end of the route, and then ride back home.
To start the rides, we meet at 10 a.m. by the front door of our community’s clubhouse, which has a large parking lot. On that fateful day last year, I was less than a minute late; the group was already gone. Having been brought up with the notion that punctuality is sacrosanct, I was determined to catch up with the group as quickly as I could.
That’s when I messed up royally. To save a few seconds, I cut through the parking lot, riding at a fairly high speed.
In my eagerness to catch up, I looked straight ahead with the hope of glimpsing my pals around the corner. Of course, I should have looked down at the pavement.
And then it happened. I failed to notice I was heading straight onto a wheel stop and hit it hard. What happened next is still a blur.
I remember flying over the handlebar and hitting the hard pavement. I instantly lost consciousness and got a concussion that lasted somewhere between 10 and 20 minutes. The next thing I remember is sitting on a bench dazed and confused, with bandages and tubes all over my body.
Then came the real shock. Our group’s leader, who was slightly late as well, had witnessed the accident. He handed me my four upper front teeth, which had broken off during the accident and landed on the pavement next to me.
True, it could have been even worse. People my age often have brittle bones that break when they fall, sometimes with fatal consequences. Thanks to my long daily walks, running up outdoor stairs, and working out hard at the gym, my bones are extremely dense. None broke.
I was also lucky that an EMT station is located right outside our community’s gate. When our group’s leader called, they arrived within minutes, dressed my many bleeding wounds, and transported me to a nearby ER.
While there, I received good news. An MRI detected no damage to my brain, probably because I was wearing my helmet during the accident. I was released from the hospital within hours.
Yet, my ordeal had only just begun. I embarked on a long, frustrating quest to get my broken teeth replaced.
The first order of business was to have the remnants of my broken teeth removed. I will not share a photo of my toothless smile; it might traumatize you. Fortunately, many people in our community were still wearing face masks as Covid protection, so I did too without attracting any special attention.
The next stage was getting fitted with temporary dentures. While they restored my smile, they were not functional. I had to chew on both sides of my mouth. I also had to remove them every night before going to sleep. It made me feel even older than I already was and reminded me of jokes at the expense of denture-wearing old men.
Then came the final, most crucial stage: installing implants. I won’t bore you with details of this complex procedure. Suffice it to say that it took seven months of visits to the dentist and orthodontist to prepare my gum for the implants, screw them into my gum, let the gum heal, and finally screw in the crowns on top of my implants.
Last but not least, the sticker shock. The bill for the four implants came to nearly $20,000 — all out-of-pocket; Medicare does not pay a penny for dental expenses.
Yet, I don’t regret having chosen this expensive option. Thanks to excellent dental work, my implants look, feel, and function exactly like real teeth. I could not be happier!
By now, all my wounds have healed, but I still have two permanent souvenirs from the accident: a visible, fairly large scar on my arm, and a less visible, much smaller scar on my upper lip, which had to be stitched up after the accident. I can live with that!
I drew two important lessons from my accident. First, as the wise adage says, haste makes waste. Instead of gaining a few seconds, I lost more than a month. That’s how long it took until my condition allowed me to get back on the bike and rejoin the group. So, I am now far more relaxed about time than I ever was before the accident.
My second lesson — which applies to all cyclists — is never to ride in a parking lot. If you must go through one with your bike, just walk it. Why worry about hitting one of those hazardous wheel stops? Your safety and peace of mind are well worth the extra minute it will take.
