The number one way to become a real cyclist

All smiles

...before the pain blocker wore off

Apparently, you're not a real cyclist until you've destroyed your shoulder.

Check.

In fact, as of Friday, September 6th, I broke my first bone! Now that I live in an area quickly becoming the new U.S. hotbed for mountain biking, it was hilarious to note the lack of reaction to the complete destruction of my shoulder - not just from other riders, but from all my healthcare providers as well.

My favorite nonresponse happened at the urgent care center right after my accident. I told the Physician's Assistant that I had seen a bunch of Patrick Swayze movies where he - or one of his friends - pops his shoulder right back into place.

"It looks really easy," I said. "I'll stand facing the wall, and then you smash my shoulder against it. Done and done."

She lifted my shirt, took a very quick look, and then laughed.

"That's not happening," she said. "This is series three. All your tendons are disconnected."

"No Patrick Swayze?"

"No Patrick Swayze."

So now I'm a real cyclist, but not a Patrick-Swayze-ripped-body-cool-hair real cyclist. Maybe that's just setting the bar too high.

Before we close out, I have to give huge props to my current, noncelebrity wife, Barb. She's been wonderful.

Except for that moment at 4 a.m. last night when I heard her mumble, "This is going to be fun."

That wasn't helpful. Speaking of not being helpful, where the hell is my celebrity girlfriend Rihanna when I need her? I'm starting to think about breaking up with her.

Although maybe I shouldn't be so rash. She's out on tour, so she's really busy. Or maybe she's waiting until I'm done smelling like surgery.