Stung

June 2026

Let me be upfront about something: I am not afraid of bees. Or at least, I wasn’t. I went over thirty years without a single sting. I had convinced myself I was untouchable, coexisting in peaceful neutrality with the insect world. The bees had other plans. Thankfully, I’m not allergic.

Sting #1 — August 24, 2024

We had just lost our family dog of 12 years due to a sudden and severe illness. Kenji was a great dog, and not a day goes by where I don’t miss him. Grief does strange things to the mind. For me, the bike became a release valve. I was riding a lot and often thought about him, sometimes tearfully, especially when a certain song would come on. My emotions would hit me all at once, and I channeled those tears and sorrow into powerful pumping pedal strokes. Those were the rides I needed most, even when they hurt.

I was deep in one of those rides, head down and heavy hearted, when it happened.
A honeybee was struck by my pedaling knee. Normally, insects bounce off. That’s just how physics are. Instead of reflecting off my knee, this bee dropped straight down, following the line of my shin, and landed perfectly between the front of my ankle and the tongue of my shoe. A one-in-a-million trajectory.

A moment later, I was struck with a white-hot, concentrated burning sensation. I thought it was possibly a thorny plant, but the pain was persistent. I looked down to see the bee wedged against my ankle, getting squeezed between my skin and my shoe with every pedal stroke. I was going downhill so I couldn’t immediately stop. For about twenty feet, I just had to let it sting me.

When I finally flicked the bee off and ripped my shoe and sock away, the welt was already forming. I stood there on the side of the trail, ankle throbbing, eyes still red from tears, as I dispatched the bee in my sock.

It happened within the first five miles. I stayed out for a full 25-mile ride anyway and iced my ankle when I got home. I stubbornly wasn’t ready to stop riding that day.

Sting #2 — May 30, 2026

I had just bought a new helmet. A Kask Utopia Y. I was excited to try out my first aero helmet. The forecast showed grey skies and strong winds. I’ve ridden through worse.
As it turned out, the wind was not my biggest problem that day.

Less than eight miles in, a bee flew directly into the large vent on the front of my helmet. I had no idea at the time. I reached up to make a minor adjustment and apparently, that was enough to alarm my uninvited guest. I was stung right on top of my head. I immediately knew that I was stung. Once again, it happened while going downhill. Probably a little over 20 mph. Why am I always stung at speed?

I managed to stop quickly, pulled off my helmet, and ripped off my skullcap. There it was: a carpenter bee, clinging to the cap.

I later learned that carpenter bees are actually quite docile creatures. They only sting when threatened, and it’s only the females that sting, and even then, rarely. So in a weird way, I get it. I would be startled too if someone suddenly pressed down on my ceiling. I don’t blame you, little bee. 

The skullcap probably kept the stinger from going too deep, because the swelling was minimal and the pain wasn’t bad. I did have a red spot on the top of my head though. My cycling kit said gravel rider; my forehead said Soviet statesman.

I finished the ride. On the way back, I spotted a few deer along the trail, and just like that, the ride redeemed itself. When I got back, I checked Reddit for stories from other cyclists who had similar run-ins with bees and how to stop it from happening again. Can I put mesh over the vents? Are there sting-proof caps? Should I sell the Kask and just keep using Wavecell helmets? After all, that Wavecell structure stops insects from getting it. Maybe I’ll look for Kabuto helmets the next time I’m in Japan? Instead, Reddit just taught me of all the other miserable ways to get stung on a bike including behind the glasses, inside bibs, or my favorite, up the cycling shorts. Oh, no, not the bees!

A Brief History of Stings

Here’s what makes all of this particularly absurd: before these two incidents, the last time I was stung was as a child. I was pushing a toy bubble mower around the back yard when I must have rolled over a bee or wasp. It went straight for little Nick.

According to my parents, young me handled it by just quietly repeating “ow” over and over. No crying or screaming. Adult me did not respond with that kind of composure. Those “ow’s” have since been replaced with a string of colorful expletives that I will not be reproducing on my family-friendly blog. 

So where does that leave me? With a freshly minted, completely irrational fear of every possible place I could theoretically be stung (shout out to Reddit). For now, I worry about all the reasonable bee landing zones on my body. It will subside over time.

I’m out here trying to ride and grieve and push through grey skies and strong winds, but apparently the bees have decided that’s their moment too.