A Short Ride
NOTE: I've been told - correctly - that many of my posts are too long. I can't help it - I derive way too much enjoyment out of dissecting the little details of every-day and not-so-every-day situations. In an effort to appease those of you who are so easily distracted (put your iPhone down!), I've split this event into two posts. It was either that or not provide you with my bucket-bath strategy, post accident. The choice was easy. So enjoy part one...
This year’s Bike MS 100 mile ride was supposed to come with
a healthy does of redemption. A vencing of past goals set, yet not achieved.
Succeeding where I had once come up short. Last year I was young Bruce Wayne,
alone at the bottom of a well after having not reached the 100-mile mark,
waiting for someone, anyone to rappel down and ask me why we fall. “So that we
can learn to pick ourselves up”.
This year, I endeavored to pick myself up.
And as a result, I fell harder than ever.
There are probably still parts of me on the side of the
road. But let’s not spoil it and start at the beginning.
Part I: Preparation
This section will be short.
If not entirely physically prepared for the ride, I was at
least in a mentally solid state leading up to it. Having missed last year’s 110-mile
mark by just 22 miles (OK, that’s roughly 1/5 of the entire ride, I realize) due
to a random Midwest monsoon, I was ready to push my body well beyond its limits
to achieve the century mark. Quads be damned!
My training primarily consisted of riding to and from work,
a straight-shot 11.5-mile ride along a little traveled auxiliary road. Twice a
day, three times a week, and throw in a 20 or so ride over the weekend and I
was averaging 70 – 80 miles a week. Enough mileage to trick my brain into
thinking I was ready. And silver lining - unlike my morning commute, on Bike MS
Day I wasn’t likely to be called an a-hole by that angry, ruddy-faced
gray-haired man who drives a Jag and apparently is always late for work. If
you’re that guy and reading this right now, you’re an ass. Stop reading my
blog.
Part II: Race Day
A pair of bat-signal-esque spotlights (yes…sticking with
Batman for the moment) cut the pitch-black morning on race day, signaling to me
that the day had come; it was time to pick myself up once again. As I breezed
past the parking attendant motioning me away from the parking garage –
volunteers only - pretending to be lost and distracted, I guided the Saturn into
the spot where it would sit, untouched, for the next three days.
I readied my bike, the same thick-tired hybrid from the
previous year, and dropped it off near The Other Team Garmin’s loading zone, at
which point I began walking around the parking lot, shaking out my nerves one
squeaky spandexed step at a time. I wanted coffee so bad, but for once my brain
listened to my stomach, which predicted intestinal unpleasantness. I spotted a few team
members with whom I chatted briefly, but mainly kept to myself. Much like my
days running on the high school track team, when it comes to individual sports,
I prefer to be alone beforehand, to let my mind psychologically assault my body in
hopes of turning butterflies into adrenaline. Sometimes it works.
To keep to myself without being a jerk, I put in my ear buds,
though I didn’t hit “play”. Preparing for what I imagined would be a lonely,
at-my-own-pace ride, I loaded an audiobook onto my iPod. I chose one of the
“Castle” books, a clever spin-off from the show of the same name, which I
enjoy. I didn’t expect to keep up with my teammates, all of whom had fancy road
bikes with sexy, slim tires. Yet I still had to be entertained, or my mind
would roam to unimaginable places during what I predicted would be an 8+hour
ride. My brain would hurt more than my hammies.
I was pleased to see the sun peeking over the building I
spend so much time in, as it signified the beginning of the race. I positioned
myself with my team, headphones jammed in my ears, watching the 8 or so groups
of similarly spandexed bikers roll out before us. I’ve completed a handful of
what I consider endurance events, and after each one has begun, I am
overwhelmed with a sense of relief. Relief that this event that I (should have)
trained for for so long is finally here. No more imagining how it will go. No
more freaking out over my diet and training schedule. No more guilty feelings
after downing a handful of Skittles, just because they’re there. It’s race
time.
I figured I would stay with the group for the first 10 miles
or so, then branch out on my own once everyone began settling into a rhythm. At
that point, I’d hit “play” and let Castle narrate me towards the finish line. It’d
be the best sort of cycling partner – one that I can shut up at a moment’s
whim, or just listen to for hours on end, with no expectation of conversation.
It seemed like a solid plan, and as I sidled next to my pal
Tommy, my 65+mile partner from the previous year, I was feeling great. Though
it was chilly, after a few miles I was almost fully thawed out, appreciating
the rising sun on my face. I would be cold again, very, very soon.
Part III: Disaster
Chatting with Tommy about I have no freaking idea what, we hit a downhill stretch roughly four miles in that propelled us down the road at 27 miles per hour, dewy grass whizzing by my peripherals. The precise speed and distance are permanently etched into my brain because - and I can’t underestimate the importance of what I’m about to say here – they marked the exact point, time and place on the time-space continuum that my bike drifted off of the road, onto gravel and into the weedy un-mowed grass. No big deal, right?
In an instant my bike came to a screeching halt, the
momentum from the bike transferred to my body, ejecting my ass off the bike’s
seat, my hands white-knuckled the handlebars as I performed a (probably
graceful) moving “endo”. My grip became dislodged from the bars, my back and
butt hit the ground simultaneously, I skidded until my helmet hit a crunched up
Natural Light can, and my collarbone went “CRUNCH!!!” Or something like that –
it all happened so fast. As of yet, no witnesses have come forth.
Instinctively I un-mangled myself from the position that I
landed in – think chalk-outline dead guy in an 80’s buddy cop film – and got on
my knees. Holy shit, what just happened? My brain was racing, trying to unlock
the mystery, clues all around me. As I attempted to get up, I felt a twinge of
pain in my left knee. Tommy had pulled over roughly a hundred yards ahead and
was gesturing to me, asking if I was OK. I gave him what he must have
translated as a meth-head stare, ignored his inquiry, and reached with my right
hand towards my knee to assess the damage. Knives entered my shoulder as I
felt the sound of celery braking! What the hell was that?
Stuck navigating the wreckage – my wreck – with so much fog
in my head, it took a few seconds before I realized how to proceed without
antagonizing the beast. Left hand reached up this time, began on the outside of
my right shoulder, traced it towards my neck and holy crap, my collarbone was
broken!
Didn’t even need a second opinion as I stood there, frozen,
starting to comprehend the severity of what had happened, while hundreds, if
not thousands, of cyclists sped by, shouting “You OK?”; “Got what you need?”;
“Did you just break your collarbone, dumbass?”. I kicked the crunched Natural
Light can, glad that at least part of my body was functioning properly. The
crunching sound it made gave me even more chills.
By the time Tommy reached me and realized that I was
actually pretty bad off, he made the wise suggestion to call the support number
on the orange bracelet we were all given, but that he almost left in his car.
Mine was wrapped around my handlebars - not that I was cognizant enough to
point that out to him.
Admirably, Tommy waited at my side while the support vehicle
was hailed. I felt bad that his race-day experience was being affected because I forgot how to ride a bike. That he stood by my side as the hundreds and hundreds of
cyclists – remember, this was only 4 miles into a century ride – wheeled past us. His
ride would be tougher as a result of this delay. But I was grateful to him as I
stood there, because I could feel my body going into shock, which for me
manifested itself in the form of dizziness and an aching desire to barf.
I got down on a knee and did my best to ignore EVERYTHING
around me, choosing to focus on just one thing: not puking. I could feel the
waves of shock reverberate through my body, stemming from the top of my head,
down my chest and through to my numb toes. I was able to stand, shakily, as the
support car arrived. I waved Tommy off and thanked him profusely. He would
eventually catch up to another member of the Team and finish the 100-mile
course in great shape. I was sincerely glad for him. And a bit jealous, too.
My mind increasingly foggy, two older gentlemen approached me, made me
sign a form (didn’t even think to ask them what it was), and began the
uncomfortable and painstaking process of trying to bandage my right arm in a
make-shift sling. You know when you take a general First Aid class, and they
teach you to make a sling out of a triangle of cloth? They missed
that class. They were overly gracious though, and kept me talking, trying to
distract my focus from the sound of broken bones grinding against each other.
After a few minutes had passed – and another couple hundred
cyclists – my sling was as good (or bad) as it was going to get. I wandered out
of the shade because my fingers had also gone numb and I realized that these
guys weren’t going to be taking me anywhere – they were some sort of Tier 1
support. I was so jacked up on adrenaline, I stopped trying to understand the situation and just assumed it would work out. My ride eventually materialized in the form of another volunteer driving a maroon
pick-up truck. He, like so many others throughout this ordeal, instinctively
greeted me with his right hand outstretched, then realizing his folly,
retracted it sheepishly. I told him it was no problem, made an awkward "fist-bump" reference, and then we headed to his
truck.
He was nice enough to gather the strewn debris of my
accident and stuff it in my bike bag. As I walked to the truck, my lower right
back began to throb. Awkwardly reaching for it with my left hand, I realized
that my Pentax camera (waterproof, dust-proof, mud-proof and most importantly,
shock-proof) was still in the back pocket of my bike jersey, and had borne the
brunt of my fall. Later on, examining the damage to my jersey, you can clearly
see the size and shape of the camera lens, as painted in grass stains. And it
still takes pictures.
I was driven past Garmin HQ and to the Olathe Hospital,
which was just a few miles away. I was fortunate – if you can call it that – to
have crashed so early on in the race: I didn’t need an ambulance; the hospital
was close-by; volunteers were probably still in that early-day, overly-helpful
mood. I chatted a bit, but mostly I tried to replay what had happened. I was in
a state of legitimate disbelief. I was not heading to the hospital. My bike
wasn’t on the back of this guy’s truck. My bones weren’t grinding against each
other with every loose turn. None of this was happening. Right?
As we pulled into the emergency drop-off zone at the
hospital, I had two realization: 1) this was the first time I’ve actually been
dropped off at the hospital by a stranger (felt like a movie), and 2) my wallet
was in a backpack headed for Lawrence, and inside it was my insurance
information. All I had was my driver’s license, a credit card and three Clif
bars. It was a rare instance where, as an adult, I had absolutely no idea what
to do. My mind-fog prevented me from reaching any reasonable conclusion quick
enough, so I simply went to the counter, pushed my credit card and license
through the slot and told the attendant, “I’ve broken my collarbone and don’t
have my insurance card.”
(Screenshot of my ride. Click the link below to relive it. 4 miles out, 4 back to Garmin, 4 to the Hospital and 4 more back to Garmin)
Turns out it wasn’t a huge deal after all, and I was whisked away to
be examined, have x-rays taken (not as painful as a dislocated elbow, but still
not fun), given a goofy-looking “immobilization device” and painkiller, then
sent on my way. Nobody there disputed my diagnosis – in fact, the doctor
clarified that the break was not a clean one, but over time the bones would
heal and I’d have a bump there, but all would be just fine. He recommended I
see a specialist for a second opinion. I planned to take it up on it.
Fortunately I had been able to call Melody when the doctor
was examining my x-ray. Talking to her had been hard enough, but I was relieved
that she left work immediately to pick me up even though - and I can’t really
understand why I did this - I told her that I’d be fine and I didn’t need her
to come to the hospital. No backup plan. I was obviously still not thinking
correctly.
Until this point, I hadn’t had time to feel like and idiot
or begin to consider the long-term implications of this sort of injury. The
emotional gravity of the accident snuck up on me as I began to leave the
emergency room.
Seeing Melody sitting there in the waiting room hit me like a Mac truck.
There’s no handbook for what to do or say when you see a loved one in such a
vulnerable state. Or in my case, meekly standing there, eyes dopy from drugs,
wearing only biker shorts, shoes and socks, my jersey draped over my shoulders
don-style, arm in a sling, chest exposed, hair greasy and disheveled, emotionally unstable.
Seeing her made it real. Others – people I know – would now know about this.
Both of us were on the verge of tears, so I just leaned into her with my good
shoulder and let her hug awkwardly hug me. It was as heavy a moment as we’ve
had together.
Stay tuned for the epilogue, which focuses on drugs, before-and-after x-ray images, doctors, naps, many shirtless images, hours and hours of TV and the stunning resolution to the bucket-bath issue mentioned at the top.
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