I figured I was safer veering from the street to the grass. And this right of way, running along side the main road, was practically begging for me to take it. I hopped the curb, and pushed it.
I know, the point of a bicycle is to pedal. And I do. But sometimes, such as when I’m coasting along in grass and thinking about the road I’ll turn on, up ahead, I just like to use the electric throttle. I like that I have it as an option. I like that it helps me get past the boggier bits of bike riding.
I cruised along at a pretty good speed. The bike could get to nearly 30 miles per hour on a flat surface, but I was moving around 20 mph here. Picking up speed. Flying.
I was flying.
It happened that fast, that suddenly, that I didn’t quite know what it was until I slammed into the ground. And I slammed hard.
A stunned moment. The wind knocked out of me. And then, the pain.
It was bad. I’ve dealt with pain all my life, and there have been impacts that did a number on me. But this was bad.
My chest, my side, my shoulder. It felt like I’d taken a sledge hammer to the ribs, which wasn’t far from the truth.
I was having a hard time breathing. Or catching my breath. I had only enough breath in me, in fact, the utter “What the f*@# just happened?”
And then I stumbled away, toward a tree close by. I was looking for shade and something to put my back against while I worked out whether I was dying. Because I thought, “Maybe I’m dying.”
It took a bit. Long and excruciating moments. And finally the pain...
Well, it was still there. But the immediacy of it started to fade. I was starting to breathe again, in a mostly normal way.
It wasn’t easy, but I got to my feet. I moved to the bike. I found the stuff from my pockets scattered all over the ground—my wallet, my phone, my pocket knife. One of the bike’s mirrors was busted, broken off and lying there among my things.
I picked all of this up, shoved things back in my pockets, put the broken pieces in the saddlebag of the bike. I did all of this one-handed, the other hand pressed to my ribs.
The front fender on the bike was bent. A hunk of dirt was caught in it. I straightened and cleared it as best I could.
What happened?
I looked back at the path I’d traveled. It was a bright, sunny, very hot Texas Summer day. So hot I was sizzling. And as I looked back the way I’d come, the way I’d ridden in, I saw...
Nothing. There was nothing. No sticks or rocks or other objects. Nothing I could have hit, to make me go flying, to bring me down hard on the sun-baked ground, like smacking so much wet laundry on a rock.
I stumbled back along that path, clutching my ribs, wincing from the pain there and in my shoulder.
It took a minute, but I found it. It took time, because it was hidden. Camouflaged. Perfectly concealed by its surroundings, right out in the open.
From every angle, at any distance, it looked like nothing was there. But when I got close, I could see it.
A hole. And growing out of it, tall grass. Only it didn’t look tall, because it was mowed perfectly level to the grass surrounding it. It was a hole about eight inches deep, but from every possible angle it looked exactly like the field it was sunk into .
It was not a large hole. About the size of the rim of a cowboy hat, if that. Tiny, by comparison to the rest of the earth around it. And, on that grassy plain, it should have been the hardest thing to find or to hit. It should have been eminently missable. And yet, I’d found it. My front tire had found it. And I had hit it so hard that it threw me forward and slammed me into the ground several feet away. Slammed me on the ground like a bear killing a trout.
My ribs ached. My shoulder ached.
No. Not ached. That’s too subtle.
Both were volcanic with pain. Both were molten. Both spewed igneous agony into the atmosphere of my body.
I stood, huffing, wincing, hurting, and wondered what I should do.
Call an ambulance was my first thought.
Ride back to the house was my second.
That second thought felt more like the kind of thing I would do, so that’s what I did. And thank God that I was on an electric bike, because it could do all the work. The long, twisting, jarring work of getting me home, winding through the neighborhood until I got to my house several miles away. It was a long ride.
When I got home I told Kara what happened, but I told her in winces and on my way to the shower. I just wanted a shower. I wanted out of these grass stained clothes and under a relaxing, hot stream of water.
I showered, and the pain faded a bit. A little. Ok, not much. But some.
When I got out, Kara insisted we go to the ER. And for maybe the first time in my life, I had no arguments.
We got in the van—our only vehicle, at that time. Kara drove us to a local emergency room. Mini, our dog, insisted on being in my lap.
I think the ER people thought I was a drug seeker. They asked odd questions, made vague comments about me “driving myself in.” One of them said, “You have a dog,” nodding to Mini’s white hairs, stuck, to my shirt. I don’t know what that had to do with anything, but for some reason I apologized for that, and for my state. I was sorry that I came in covered in dog hair.
I got X-rays. Lots of them. Lots and lots of them. And by the time they were done and I was put in a room, forced to interact with someone at some remote location via an iPad on a wheeled stand, I was starting to feel like hell. The pain was back, only now it was playing catch up. It hurt to sit. It hurt to lie down. It hurt to stand. I hurt to breathe.
They were hesitant to prescribe painkillers. But I think I still surprised them by asking if it would be ok if I just took ibuprofen. Because I don’t like taking medication. I don’t even like taking ibuprofen, but that just shows you how desperate I was. Desperate OTC drug seeking behavior.
“Yes, that’s fine,” they said. There was another comment about me “driving myself,” and I just had no inclination left to correct them. They must see all sorts, in that place. I was not a sort they’re used to dealing with. I resented being there. I don’t like doctors much. My character flaw.
So, an hour or so after stumbling in, I stumbled back out. Only now I was stiff and hurting and had a hard time getting back in the van. And a harder time letting Mini get back in my lap.
“Are you ok?” Kara asked.
I had cracked ribs. And the shoulder was fine, but there was evidence I had broken it “sometime in the last year.” We marveled at that one. When and how could I have possibly broken my shoulder and not known it?
I had probably taken ibuprofen that time, too.
That night I slept, but barely. I laid in a recliner upstairs, which was probably a mistake. Climbing up into our bed, though, seemed out of the question.
It was weeks before the pain faded. I went through a lot of ibuprofen.
It’s been more than a year since I’ve ridden the bike. Actually, close to two years, now that I think about it. I’m not afraid of it, I’m not traumatized by it, I just... honestly it’s never even occurred to me. I’ve had a lot happening.
The whole experience was excruciating. And what did I learn from it?
Well, one lesson is, doing the thing you think is safer is no guarantee of staying safe. So you might as. Well keep going on whatever path you’re on.
And another: The really dangerous stuff might just be hiding in plain site, blending in with all of the benign surrounding you.
How are those for life lessons?
Oh! Last thing...
Keep plenty of ibuprofen on hand.
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A NOTE AT THE END
I swear, I’m not afraid of the bike. I’ve done plenty of dangerous things in my life, had had plenty of falls and bumps and bruises and worse. I tend to just climb back on the horse.
But I do kind of wonder... why two years? Not once in two years have I thought about getting back on that bike and taking a ride? That seems weird. Probably something to confront there.
Some very good life lessons! Your words really resonate with me and I really enjoy reading your writing.
Hey, Kevin, sorry to hear your bike story (2 yrs later). Maybe you need to get back on that horse (bike) to just ride a few houses left and right of your driveway. Please, stay OFF the grass and watch for potholes! Love your books. Be safe!