Drunk cycling error
My good friend and myself had disembarked from Tooting Broadway tube after a rigorous drinking session in central London, and we were looking forward to a stagger home. I had, however, left my bike chained to the railings before going out and getting plastered, and recalling this dutifully went to reclaim it. After a struggle with the lock , my ‘Saracan’ was ready to go. I mounted and prepared to head off, much to the protestations of my chum. He saw no reason why I should get home before him, and after a little bit of gentle persuading I agreed to relinquish my saddle and pedal him home. He came off best in this arrangement, as he only had to sit on the saddle and hold onto my back, sticking his legs out stupidly behind him, while I had all the donkey’s work to do.

We were cycling in the middle of a quiet, flat and straight suburban road just behind the station, and it was about midnight, so there was little danger of us being flattened by some twat in an SUV. This is just as well, as our first two attempts to gather enough speed to stabilise us ended in inelegant failure, with us both on the floor, chuckling gently to ourselves at the absurdity of our travel arrangements and our light hearted disdain of drink-driving regulations.

But things took a nasty turn for the worse on the third attempt. The secret to stability lay in building up enough speed, but this accomplished just keeping the handlebars straight was proving to be a real effort. Nonetheless, I was determined to succeed, buoyed on by the thought of my mate telling tales of my manliness to my girlfriend the next morning. With this small triumph already mapped out in my head, I was pumping away at those pedals like Chris Hoy on ‘roids, while leaning perilously over the handlebars.

The inevitable happened, I leaned too far, the handlebars swerved and I went flying through the night air, face-planting gloriously at speed. Unknown to me, my mate had managed to execute a delicate little jump and land on his feet perfectly unscathed. My chin took the full force of the impact, but my head actually bounced and attacked the cold, unforgiving concrete for a second time. This time I knocked half of my front left tooth away and split my lip. Remarkably I didn’t pass out, but staggered up almost immediately, not in great pain, which I could only thank the alcohol for. I grinned sheepishly at my buddy, who looked on with a mixture of shock, awe and great amusement at my battle-scarred face. “Shiiiit...You look like youve been in a war. And Where’s half your tooth gone?” he exclaimed. It was here I began to panic, and I dropped to my knees and began frantically scouring the road. Moy amigo, realising the amount of blood pouring from head wasn’t normal, kindly called an ambulance, into which I was ushered, looking for all the world like a ginger Shane McGowan on St.Patricks Day. They made me feel like the prick I was for wasting their valuable time, and some of you taxpayers’ money, and clearly felt no sympathy despite my pitiful lamentations concerning my face, my busted bike, a hefty dentist’s bill and the sound bollocking my gf was sure to administer.

*PostScript: I did end up having a small laugh out of it all however. Mon ami, acting selflessly, accompanied me to A&E. Between waiting for the ambulance and watching my toof hunt, he had managed to score some weed. Happily he only received oregano or nettles or something, and had to sober up watching ITV in A&E for 3 hrs!
My tooth was found lodged in the top of my gum.
( ProjectWeasel The Bird is the Word, Thu 17 Dec 2009, 21:45, Reply)