Oh, Nuts! An Ill-Timed Run-In With Rusty

But I know when it happened. Ten minutes later, after crossing the river, I stupidly tried to ride across the GW Parkway. I failed to jump the far curb, and as I flew over the handlebars as gracefully as a load of sandbags, one thought went through my mind.

Rusty's Revenge.

As I lay stunned and humiliated on the shoulder of the road, the Human Rescue League appeared in the form of a jogger.

"Sir, I'm an emergency medical technician," he said briskly. "Are you injured?"

At least he left me some dignity and didn't try to stuff me into a purse.

I declined the EMT's offer of an ambulance ride, and somehow managed to get home without doing any more damage.

But somewhere in Australia there's a permanent record of my ineptitude. And I'm sure that when the animal rights activists get irate after a few too many pints of Foster's, sooner or later somebody growls, "Oi, Sheila! Break out the video of that bloody Yank!" And little Rusty romps again, until he's flattened by the vicious biker in the absurdly ugly plaid shorts.

Those baggy shorts, by the way, are how you can recognize me if you happen to find yourself on the Mall on a mild weekday afternoon near the Lincoln Memorial. And if you're a fellow biker and you find yourself behind me, stay alert.

I brake for animals.