There is a theory, espoused by people who have nothing better to do than sit around and espouse all day, that the average cyclist crashes once every 4,500 miles.Not that I put a lot of stock in any espousers other than my own spouse, but I’ve been riding a bit gingerly lately, just in case.I hate to tempt the cycling fates, but it’s been more than 4,500 miles since I’ve gone down, so I guess I’m about due.I usually ride close to 15,000 miles a year, so I should wipe out about three times a year. Fortunately – and I’m worried about what this might do to my karma, not to mention my bikema – I haven’t had a bad crash in quite awhile.That’s not to say I haven’t had my share of wipeouts.Most of my memorable wrecks have happened during recreational road rides, not commutes.Once I wiped out about 30 miles into my first century, or 100-mile ride, as temperatures quickly headed toward the century mark at the Hotter’n Hell 100 ride in Wichita Falls, Texas. I donated several layers of skin to the Texas tarmac, but finished – looking like a mummy: gauze was wrapped around my right hand, right elbow and right hip, which helped to cover the gaping hole in my bike shorts.I also had a spectacular crash a couple of years ago at Lone Star Lake, when I casually rode through water spilling over the spillway. Little did I know that moss had grown under the water, making a super-slick patch of pavement that dumped me before I knew what hit me – in this case, the road, about 20 mph. I spit out the lake water, cleaned up the road rash as best I could and turned around for home. Every pedal stroke hurt more than the one before it.I’ve also “crashed” innumerable times due to my inability to clip out of my clipless pedals. I ride clipless on all my bikes; cleats on the bottom of my shoes attach my feet to the pedals, allowing for a more powerful stroke. The flip side is, it’s imperative to remember to clip out when you come to a stop. Forget and you fall, hard, usually with plenty of witnesses to your incompetence.I’ve toppled in front of tough-looking guys, amused teenagers and cute women, aghast senior citizens and kindly soccer moms who pretended not to notice as I turtle, rolling on my back, bike held high with my feet still attached to the pedals.My only serious wipeout during a commute came about two years ago.I was heading back to work after dinner, making pretty good time down Peterson Road when I suddenly felt my right leg get jerked toward the spinning chain. I was on my fixed-gear bike – when the wheels turn, the pedals turn, no coasting – and my pantleg had become caught in the chain.On a non-fixed-gear bike, I simply would have coasted to a stop, extracted my pantleg and continued, but fixies respond adversely to having objects suddenly jammed in the drivetrain.I recall grabbing handfuls of brake to stop the bike, and I remember the back tire skidding along the pavement.I also recall thinking I simply might skid to a stop.But physics caught up to me, and in a split-second of amazing clarity, I remember suddenly becoming weightless as the rear tire came off the ground and I carved a beautiful parabola – still attached to my pedals, pantleg still firmly wedged between the chain and the chainring – over the handlebars headed directly for the pavement.I somehow managed not to hit the ground face-first and instead bore the brunt of the blow with my shoulder. And knee. And hip. And elbow. And ankle. But not my face.It was a total yard sale. Lights, reflectors and various parts flew off my bike, and I bounced before coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of Peterson Road.Luckily, there were no witnesses – nor cars in close proximity to run me over and finish me off. So I collected my parts, gathered up what had flown off my bike, checked out the awesome chainring holes in my pants and climbed back aboard for a painful ride the rest of the way to work.I still ride fixed, but I’ve become a bit more fanatical about cuffing the pantleg, especially now that the 4,500-mile mark has come and gone painlessly.