Duking Out the Hazards

I had heard that the weather in Houston during February can be quite pleasant. So I looked forward to biking to a primary care rotation located about 10 miles southwest of my home. Google Maps, which provides bicycling directions, told me I could use the Brays Bayou bike trail most of the way.

On the morning of February 12th, my first day, the temperature was 37 degrees. It was overcast and damp. There are hearty individuals who believe these are perfect biking conditions, just as seasoned marathon runners complain when it is mild and prefer to be sleeveless and frigid simultaneously. I submit that my South Asian gene stock prepared me exclusively for warm climates. I have a disproportionate surface-area-to-volume ratio. Moreover, I cannot grow a beard and am fast becoming bald. Heat retention is not my forte.

But I headed off anyway, wearing appropriate gear. From top to bottom:

• helmet
• balaclava
• a brightly colored windbreaker, and under that a thermal layer, and under that a T-shirt
• reflective and weather-resistant gloves and athletic shoes
• scrub bottoms tucked into thick socks

Despite the preparation, I was quite cold. But the handful of bikers I passed fortified me. They were grizzled commuters, sporting megawatt LED head- and taillights, dripping in fluorescent and reflective rain gear, cargo rack weighed down by full pannier baskets. We gave each other a slight head nod, and I felt proud to be part of an exclusive club of individuals bold and prepared enough to take on such unpleasant elements.

Thus, I did not feel particularly concerned as I reached a metal barrier about four miles into the ride, where the trail intersects a busy thoroughfare. I scanned the area and determined that the only alternative was to bike alongside car traffic on Braeswood Boulevard, an uneven three-lane road with no cycling lane. So, I passed to the side of the obstruction and continued along the trail, assuming that I’d improvise as needed.

A few hundred yards later, the path abruptly ended. I got off my bike and walked it through ankle deep mud until I reached Braeswood. I hopped back on and took up the right lane of the road, but struggled to keep pace with the cars. Drivers honked as they flew by.

Google Maps suggested I take the on-ramp to a nearby interstate highway. I declined. Fortunately, the trail opened at that disheartening moment, and I was back on track. The subsequent part of the journey was pleasant by comparison. Without the imminent threat of death by car, the harsh headwind, snot freezing onto my lips, and odd duality of feeling sweaty throughout my core while frigid at my extremities was exhilarating.

The Brays Bayou trail splits about three-fourths of the way into the journey, and I was instructed to ride along the Keegans Bayou for a short distance until I reached what Google Maps called an “Asphalt-Gravel Road.” There was an abrupt change in environment, from pavement to open field. As I looked for a path, I saw upturned shopping carts, strewn refuse, and a robust variety of flora and fauna able to survive a subtropical climate in winter. On this particular day, the fauna included wild dogs.

They were large and intimidating, even from a distance of 20 or 30 feet. Once they began barking, I knew I was spotted and had to act quickly. Turning around would put me further from work. I also wouldn’t know if I were caught until it was too late.

So I barreled ahead, directly towards the sharp teeth and enraged eyes. One turned his head and yelped, presumably to call for reinforcements. There were just two of them at the moment—certainly more than enough to maul me, as they seemed to be Rottweilers. But if they wanted to wait for help, I had a small window to escape.

I crunched down on the gear shifter and pumped on the pedals. My bike jostled over grass mounds and trash. I knew I was supposed to head generally to the left, which meant that I would have to turn and become the chased.

I saw the path—partially paved, with loose gravel lining the side. It was nevertheless a far better choice for speed and safety. I hooked away and saw the dogs for the last time. Now I’d have to judge distance from them by their sounds.

The street was a few football-field lengths ahead. I sucked in a deep breath as I hit a pothole and the bike’s frame shook. Then I saw a dip, perhaps a two-foot U-shaped divot. I could jump it and risk a crash, or slow down to ride through it but risk getting attacked. I tried to listen for the dogs’ barking or galloping footsteps, but I was panting too heavily.

An image flashed in my head of the General Lee, the notorious car from the Dukes of Hazzard, flying over Sheriff Rosco and his inept crew. Now was my chance to make a 21st-century multicultural update, to live out the fantasy I had as an eight-year-old. The decision was made. I picked up the front tire, pulled on the handlebar, and was airborne.

I hit the ground hard, but upright. I stuck that damn landing. And so I let out a muffled “yeehaw” through snot coating my throat and mouth. I raced onto the street, hoping that if the dogs were still on my tail, concerned citizens would notice and do something. But there was no clamor, so I stopped and turned around. Nothing. I had dusted them. Boss Hogg and the sheriff were foiled again.

I arrived to work a few blocks later, reeking of BO, drenched in sweat, but feeling as if I just climbed Everest. My heart raced. I paced back and forth between the staff workroom and clinic area. The nurse gave me a searing look of disdain and pointed at my feet. “Are you the new resident? You’re tracking dirt everywhere.” It looked as if I were wearing snowshoes composed of mud.

After a few vain attempts to clean up, I began seeing patients. A few inquired about my disheveledness. After recounting my story, they recalled their own struggles with transportation. Jeffrey, a young bearded man who flashed a grayed smile devoid of many teeth, reared his head back in laughter as he heard about the dogs. Immediately, he clutched his jaw and screamed. Two months earlier, Jeffrey was scheduled to get a molar tooth extracted, but he showed up to the wrong dental clinic at the right time. He hurried to the bus stop and waited. He boarded one bus, transferred, took another, and eventually arrived at the correct clinic far too late to be seen. He returned home dejected and set the next available appointment—three months later.

Through tears, Jeffrey described how his life in the interim had revolved around this issue: urgent care and ER visits to control fevers and pain related to tooth infections (no doc either in the ER or in our urgent care clinics had the authority to extract the diseased tooth). He had lost over 10 pounds, as chewing essentially any solid food was miserable and therefore avoided. He feared job interviews; talking was painful. He might drool out of the afflicted side of his mouth. He remained unemployed. And yet I could do nothing different than previous doctors. I prescribed him an antibiotic and wished him luck until his dental appointment.

Any remaining mirth was sucked out of the room. Though he was already resigned to his circumstances, I felt impotent and embarrassed. Certainly, I was frustrated at not being able to pull his tooth, as I had learned how to safely do so as a medical student. But it was the privilege I held in choosing to bike, and only then encountering the barriers he faced, that wounded.

I tried one more time to commute by bicycle. I again got to the barrier, but this time saw detour signs leading me to the sidewalk along Braeswood and against traffic. However, it was trash day and thus garbage bins obstructed the path. I tried sliding between the containers and the road, but slipped and landed on Braeswood with cars headed towards me at 30 or 40 miles an hour. I threw myself and my bike onto the sidewalk. The rims were completely bent.

I carried the bike to a strip mall a few blocks ahead and began tinkering with it. A friendly man offered to bang the rims into shape with a hammer he had in his car. However, the mall’s parking lot also doubled as a dog-walking area, and the Good Samaritan was accompanied by a pit bull. I instead called my wife for a ride, and after an admonishment, drove the rest of the rotation.

Sarat Munjuluri shared his story, “Duking out the Hazards,” in September 2022 at the Innovations in Arts and Health conference hosted by the University of Houston. Watch Munjuluri tell his story.

https://vimeo.com/uhit/review/755917749/f81248740a#t=43m16s&end=50m30s