Twigs of March

On a warm, spring afternoon late in March 1968, I was out riding my ten-speed Raleigh wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and soft tennis shoes. The wind and rain the day before had cleared the sky, but left wet leaves and rubble strewn over the path curving through Kelly Park in south San Jose. Moving at a comfortable clip through the deserted park with my hands resting on the middle of the handlebars, I carefully weaved around and between debris on the narrow asphalt trail. My front tire touched a small twig, flipping it into the spokes. The front wheel stopped, but I didn’t. My elbows locked and I pitched forward, up, and found myself in mid-air, butt and legs straight up and head pointed down. I was looking backwards, upside down at my bicycle, its front wheel on the ground and its back wheel up in the air, falling to the side. In those days, we didn’t wear helmets—no one did.

I let go of the handlebars, and heard a distinct one-word directive—roll! I plunged down head first toward the pavement. Years of training in aikido had prepared me for just such an emergency. My reaction was automatic and second nature. Aikido, the Japanese art and science of self-defense, had taught me to feel the flow of energy, ki, and to redirect that energy in avoiding harm. Without thinking, my chin tucked slightly to the right, my left arm formed a curve with fingers pointing to my feet, palm outward, and my left palm touched the ground first. Next, came the left elbow, followed by neck, shoulder, back and then hip: a perfect forward roll. The energy carried me through and back up to my feet, and I rotated 180 degrees in one motion facing my bike and planted one foot back to stop my momentum, as I raised both hands in front and crouched in a fighting stance to protect myself from the next attacker; of course, there was none.

A moment passed as I felt a grin of growing satisfaction on my face. I slowly turned in all directions expecting to hear the roaring crowd clapping and cheering for my magnificent display of physical prowess. Not a single person was in the park. No one had seen me.

My injuries, if you can call them that, consisted of a slight abrasion on the left elbow, left knee and outer aspect of the left ankle. Perhaps, with additional training, I could have avoided even these. My bike suffered a permanently bent front fork and for the next ten years, I had to ride slightly off center to maintain a straight path.

The moral in this story is not only to Beware the Ides of March, but, also to Beware the Twigs of March.

Earl Frick