August 29th, 2026 | by Scott Bennett
For this week's Quench'd story, we spoke with Scott Bennett, a local Vermonter and self-proclaimed 'geezer' with a passion for cycling. A bad accident had Scott worried if he would be able to return to cycling, but with the help of a custom bike, a great mechanic, and a Bivo bottle, Scott was able to return to the sport he loved most. Scott's story is inspiring, yet silly, as all good stories are.
For this week's Quench'd story, we spoke with Scott Bennett, a local Vermonter and self-proclaimed 'geezer' with a passion for cycling. A bad accident had Scott worried if he would be able to return to cycling, but with the help of a custom bike, a great mechanic, and a Bivo bottle, Scott was able to return to the sport he loved most. Scott's story is inspiring, yet silly, as all good stories are.
My name is Scott Bennett. I have been a lifelong cycling enthusiast of one persuasion or another. I now fit comfortably into the category of “Geezers on Wheels.” At 74, I am old and slow, but still out there spinning.
For most of the last 50 years, I was balanced on skinny tires, rolling over potholed pavement and too-narrow shoulders, loving every mile and silently reveling after bagging a long, grinding climb.
My name is Scott Bennett. I have been a lifelong cycling enthusiast of one persuasion or another. I now fit comfortably into the category of “Geezers on Wheels.” At 74, I am old and slow, but still out there spinning.
For most of the last 50 years, I was balanced on skinny tires, rolling over potholed pavement and too-narrow shoulders, loving every mile and silently reveling after bagging a long, grinding climb.
A friend in the Mad River Valley, where I live, introduced a small group of us to century rides in the early ’90s, raising money for cancer research. After my first event—a two-day, 200-mile trek—I was totally hooked on distance riding. Our little posse rode that charity ride for many years, gradually extending the days and miles until we landed at six days and 600 miles. It was a blast.
Over the years, I became passionate about logging century rides and raising money for cancer research and food insecurity. It was a win-win. By the time I was finally exiled from my road-bike pursuits, I calculated that I could have circumnavigated the globe twice.
I always loved the freedom of being in the saddle, spinning along and looking for the next adventure.
And then, one day, I had a dumb-ass attack.
A friend in the Mad River Valley, where I live, introduced a small group of us to century rides in the early ’90s, raising money for cancer research. After my first event—a two-day, 200-mile trek—I was totally hooked on distance riding. Our little posse rode that charity ride for many years, gradually extending the days and miles until we landed at six days and 600 miles. It was a blast.
Over the years, I became passionate about logging century rides and raising money for cancer research and food insecurity. It was a win-win. By the time I was finally exiled from my road-bike pursuits, I calculated that I could have circumnavigated the globe twice.
I always loved the freedom of being in the saddle, spinning along and looking for the next adventure.
And then, one day, I had a dumb-ass attack.
In a moment of spectacularly poor judgment, while helping build my daughter’s house, I took an inadvertent fall of about 13 feet. I managed an impressive swan dive—but unfortunately, the concrete floor was there to catch me.
The bad news: I broke my neck. The good news: I am alive and writing this, albeit typing with the ring finger of my right hand.
Thanks to amazing EMTs and a rock-star neurosurgeon who happened to be on call that day, I am neither dead nor a paraplegic. After two surgeries and a bunch of hardware, they put Humpty Dumpty back together pretty darn well. I have no feeling in three fingers and limited neck mobility, but I feel like the luckiest guy on the planet. Angels were circling that day for sure.
My accident happened in the fall of 2020, early in the throes of COVID. After dodging the grim reaper, I decided not to return to work and instead concentrate on getting back to, or as close to, normal as was feasible.
I dispatched my walker as soon as was safely possible, relearned how to negotiate steps, and attacked my PT and OT with a vengeance. By the summer of 2021, I had come a long way. After the second surgery and some more titanium, the doc told me that once the cadaver bone fused with mine, his handiwork would be pretty bulletproof. I was cleared for takeoff—with the obvious caveat of “reasonable risks.”
First question: Can I ride my bike?
In a moment of spectacularly poor judgment, while helping build my daughter’s house, I took an inadvertent fall of about 13 feet. I managed an impressive swan dive—but unfortunately, the concrete floor was there to catch me.
The bad news: I broke my neck. The good news: I am alive and writing this, albeit typing with the ring finger of my right hand.
Thanks to amazing EMTs and a rock-star neurosurgeon who happened to be on call that day, I am neither dead nor a paraplegic. After two surgeries and a bunch of hardware, they put Humpty Dumpty back together pretty darn well. I have no feeling in three fingers and limited neck mobility, but I feel like the luckiest guy on the planet. Angels were circling that day for sure.
My accident happened in the fall of 2020, early in the throes of COVID. After dodging the grim reaper, I decided not to return to work and instead concentrate on getting back to, or as close to, normal as was feasible.
I dispatched my walker as soon as was safely possible, relearned how to negotiate steps, and attacked my PT and OT with a vengeance. By the summer of 2021, I had come a long way. After the second surgery and some more titanium, the doc told me that once the cadaver bone fused with mine, his handiwork would be pretty bulletproof. I was cleared for takeoff—with the obvious caveat of “reasonable risks.”
First question: Can I ride my bike?
My family, being the smarter part of the well-being team, was considerably less enthusiastic than I was about my intrepid attempt to ride again—especially on the road. After nursing me back from being a blob for months, they made me go to a parking lot and, under their acute observation and scrutiny, prove that I could handle the bike before venturing onto the road.
It wasn’t pretty. I couldn’t fake it well enough to get them to issue me even a restricted license. With my compromised hands, I couldn’t shift my STIs with any competence or pull the brakes hard enough to stop safely.
I was grounded.
Enter Gene Bell, my master bike mechanic for 35 years or so. I visited his shop in Richmond, explained my dilemma, and Gene had an instant solution.
My family, being the smarter part of the well-being team, was considerably less enthusiastic than I was about my intrepid attempt to ride again—especially on the road. After nursing me back from being a blob for months, they made me go to a parking lot and, under their acute observation and scrutiny, prove that I could handle the bike before venturing onto the road.
It wasn’t pretty. I couldn’t fake it well enough to get them to issue me even a restricted license. With my compromised hands, I couldn’t shift my STIs with any competence or pull the brakes hard enough to stop safely.
I was grounded.
Enter Gene Bell, my master bike mechanic for 35 years or so. I visited his shop in Richmond, explained my dilemma, and Gene had an instant solution.
“Let’s get you off the road, where you’ll be safer until you get your strength and abilities back. We’ll build you a gravel bike. We can get you electric shifters that require very little pressure and that you can activate with your ring finger. Disk brakes will require less pressure, too. We can even switch the primary brake activation to your better hand if needed.”
One problem: COVID had decimated his supply chain, and he couldn’t get the parts.
Bummer.
So I had to set aside that first summer’s dream of getting back on the bike—which, in retrospect, was probably a blessing in disguise. Eventually, we picked out a frame and components, and Gene built me an amazing gravel bike.
For my 70th birthday, I treated myself to my first new bike since I was 12 years old. Yahoo!
As Gene handed over my new treasure and talked me through the details, he pulled a water bottle from the cage.
“Are you familiar with Bivo? They’re a local company making these great hydration bottles. They’ll be perfect for you because you don’t have to squeeze them.”
He handed me the two bottles.
“Those are on me. Glad to get you back on your bike. Happy riding.”
That kindness from Gene has helped bring my cycling world back in an even better way. I’m now exploring back roads and off-the-beaten paths, safer than ever, and able to stay hydrated even when my hands can’t squeeze a traditional water bottle.
Thanks to Gene Bell and the folks at Bivo, I’m that old guy still spinning—slowly but steadily—up the valley byways.
And as you pass me, take a look over. You can’t help but see a beaming smile of gratitude from a guy who knows that every mile is a gift.
“Let’s get you off the road, where you’ll be safer until you get your strength and abilities back. We’ll build you a gravel bike. We can get you electric shifters that require very little pressure and that you can activate with your ring finger. Disk brakes will require less pressure, too. We can even switch the primary brake activation to your better hand if needed.”
One problem: COVID had decimated his supply chain, and he couldn’t get the parts.
Bummer.
So I had to set aside that first summer’s dream of getting back on the bike—which, in retrospect, was probably a blessing in disguise. Eventually, we picked out a frame and components, and Gene built me an amazing gravel bike.
For my 70th birthday, I treated myself to my first new bike since I was 12 years old. Yahoo!
As Gene handed over my new treasure and talked me through the details, he pulled a water bottle from the cage.
“Are you familiar with Bivo? They’re a local company making these great hydration bottles. They’ll be perfect for you because you don’t have to squeeze them.”
He handed me the two bottles.
“Those are on me. Glad to get you back on your bike. Happy riding.”
That kindness from Gene has helped bring my cycling world back in an even better way. I’m now exploring back roads and off-the-beaten paths, safer than ever, and able to stay hydrated even when my hands can’t squeeze a traditional water bottle.
Thanks to Gene Bell and the folks at Bivo, I’m that old guy still spinning—slowly but steadily—up the valley byways.
And as you pass me, take a look over. You can’t help but see a beaming smile of gratitude from a guy who knows that every mile is a gift.
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