Since getting my first mountain bike in 1990, I’ve seen the ill effects of what ambulance chasers have done to our sport. Closed trails, helmet laws, and a myriad of neon warning stickers covering every component on a new bike just scratch the surface of how the legal system has infiltrated mountain biking.

Don’t get me wrong; justice should be served to irresponsible brands for making unsafe products. But winning a lawsuit for millions for being hit by a car in the middle of the night and blaming it on the bike’s “faulty reflectors” is questionable. Surely, one of the reflectors had to work before the claimant— who had no lights and was wearing black clothes— became a hood ornament. The “faulty reflectors” guy became the frivolous lawsuit ire of every bike brand and enthusiast in the cycling industry until the “faulty quick release” guy came along in thedays before disc brakes and through-axles. That “faulty quick release” guy was almost me.

It all started the day I suffered one of the worst bike accidents of my life, only two blocks from my house. I was 14 years old and was riding my first mountain bike—a cherry-red 1990 Giant Rincon— down the block for a dip at the community pool on a hot, humid summer afternoon in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. There was a six-inch curb I had to hop over before arriving at my destination. Simple. Predictable. No big deal. Even though my chromoly Rincon was heavy as a boulder, I never had a problem bunny hopping it.

I approached the curb at cruising speed and pulled up on the handlebars to commence launch. The front end lifted exceptionally fast. In that split-second of flight, I looked down to find no wheel attached. It rolled underneath me, hit the curb, jolted into the air, and continued rolling through the grass. My landing wasn’t nearly as pleasant. The steel fork plowed into the pavement, followed by my face. If only a foot further, I would have faceplanted into manicured grass.

I laid in a scorpion repose with the Rincon on top of me, feeling the chainring digging into my back and hearing the freewheel spinning with an annoying click...click...click...click. I peeled my left cheek off the pavement and watched the front wheel bounce away. I got up and didn’t even think or care about the condition of my bike as I stood concussed and bleeding, not knowing what to do, when a woman got out of her car and ran toward me.

“Are you okay?” asked the woman.
“Yes, I think...” I said wearily as I turned to face her.
“Oh my god! Your face!” she said in horror.

The woman jumped back, put her hands over her mouth, and gasped as if she was auditioning for a Hitchcock flick. She had a hard time looking me in the eye so while staring at my feet she told me to go home immediately.

My face stung, but I didn’t feel any broken bones. I left the one-wheeled Rincon lying in shambles and sulked home. I didn’t even care if the bike got stolen. Actually, I hoped it would, so I might be able to get a better bike. I walked into the driveway just as my Mom got home from work. She exited the car and opened the trunk to grab the groceries without looking at me.

“How was your day?” asked Mom. “Uh, I crashed.”
“You what?”

Mom turned around, arms full of groceries, only to eject them in a spasm of fright when she saw my mangled face. She whisked me into the bathroom, and I finally got to see what all the gasping was about. I skinned off the left half of my face from my eye to mouth, a bloody version of Phantom of the Opera.

“Rad!” I exclaimed.

Mom opened the first aid cabinet and reached for the alcohol.

“This is not rad,” she said. “Why weren’t you wearing a helmet?”
“I was just going down to the pool.”

She put the alcohol on my face without warning. The pain was searing. I backed away while screaming, but she cornered me.

“How did this happen?” asked Mom.
“My wheel fell off.”
“It just fell off?”
“Well, no,” I said, sheepishly. “I guess I forgot to tighten the quick release.”

Doorbell chimes interrupted the line of questioning. Mom left me bleeding in the bathroom and opened the door to a clean-shaven man dressed in a three-piece suit with slicked back hair, holding a briefcase.

“Are you kidding?” asked Mom.

“Serious as a heart attack,” said Mister Cheetum. “I’ve seen all these newfangled bikes. They’re death traps. Worse yet, there are no directions on how these quick releases work! How are you, the innocent consumer, supposed to know how to operate it without explicit instructions?”

I lowered the icepack from my face.
“That’s because you just...”
“It’s downright irresponsible!” interrupted Mister Cheetum. “They leave you on your own to figure it out. That is, if you don’t die in the process. I’d say your son is lucky. He could be dead right now.”

Mister Cheetum continued his sell-job well past sunset. Finally, Mom decided to pursue litigation, probably to get Mister Cheetum out of the house so she could cook dinner. As Mister Cheetum exited, the sound of screeching brakes followed by a metallic crunching sound and a gut-wrenching scream rang out. A rusty and ragged Toyota Corolla pulled to the side of the road just beyond the carcass of a cyclist, a man wearing black clothes with no lights. Mom and I watched Mister Cheetum’s eyes light up as he sprinted to the car. An old, bearded man wearing blue jean overalls stumbled out of the Corolla. Mister Cheetum ran up and confronted him.

“You hit this man! I saw the whole thing. He’ll sue you for all you’re worth!”

The old Pittsburgher grabbed his overall straps with his thumbs, floated back on his heels, and cackled like a hyena.

“Ga hed,” said the man. “I ain’t wortha spit! ‘Cept dis car ‘n’ ‘at maybe, but yinz kin have it!”

“You can’t squeeze blood from a rock,” contemplated Mister Cheetum with his hand to his chin, deep in thought.

He looked at the groaning cyclist on the ground, wrapped around the mangled bike like a pretzel. The rear wheel, still attached to the bike, spun in the air. Click...click...click...click. A rubber-necking car crept by with its headlights flooding the nighttime accident scene. A wheel reflector caught the car’s headlight and flashed before Mister Cheetum. An epiphany struck. He bent over and addressed the unresponsive cyclist.

“Ten million for faulty reflectors! The driver couldn’t see you because of faulty reflectors,” he said. “We sue the manufacturer for, say... Oh, I don’t know, 60 million, and they’ll settle out of court for 10, or so.”

The cyclist could only mutter a groan in response.

Despite Mom’s numerous calls, we never heard from Mister Cheetum. I guess he had more profitable matters to attend to. Years later, I upgraded to my first race bike, a Diamondback Axis. I noticed a huge neon sticker on the fork leg paired with little metal lips on the fork dropouts. I inquired about them, and the bike shop employee explained that someone sued for millions after forgetting to tighten his quick release, leading to the disclaimer warning and “lawyer’s lips,” little tabs on the bottom of every fork dropout to prevent a loose wheel from falling out of the fork.

“What an idiot,” said the employee. “How stupid do you have to be to claim you don’t know how to tighten a quick release? Getting paid for being dumb. Welcome to America.”

I’m just glad it wasn’t me. Some notoriety just isn’t worth the money.