Sunday morning, still in love with biking after our thrilling Saturday ride, I went out by myself for a little spin. I didn't realize just how little this spin was destined to be. The house where we are staying is located 3 miles off the highway down a rocky dirt road. It sort of looks like a gravel road that has had most the gravel washed off by the weather and the rocks that remain are all golf ball size chunks. It makes for some very uncomfortable riding. Sort of like someone replaced my teeth with one of those chattering wind-up toy mouths. On Saturday it had almost been bad enough for me to think maybe I didn't really like mountain biking so much after all. But starting out on Sunday, the world felt fresh, clean, and chilly. I decided that the rocks weren't so bad after all. I could ride on difficult terrain, I could get accustomed to looking at the world vibrating around me. In fact, I thought to myself, "I'd go so far as to say I am becoming a real mountain biker."
Suddenly, a bird flew out of the brush at the edge of the road, about a foot to my right. It caught my attention and I found myself weaving back and forth like a car skidding on ice. I tried to right myself, but couldn't regain control before hitting a rock at the wrong angle with my front tire. I was thrown off the bike and slid on my right side until I found myself coming to a stop on my back, with a final thump to my head.
Oh, not my head! I spend a lot of time at work these days thinking about traumatic brain injuries. I read books about people surviving them; the professional biker I mentioned in the last post has one; I did a walk a few months ago to help the TBI foundation in Utah raise money. So this has led to what some people might refer to as paranoia. I lay on the road for a minute, trying to catch my breath. Am I still me? I thought. Am I conscious? Yes and yes. It was only after I determined this that the rest of the pain started to set in. After a minute I convinced myself that lying on the ground wasn't doing me much good. I righted myself and limped back to the house, which was still very much in view.
Back at the house I took a survey of injuries. My helmet had rocks embedded in the styrofoam sides, my windbreaker was torn, and my arm bloody. The most painful injury was to my thigh. After returning to SLC I took my pants off to show my sister and get her professional medical opinion.
"Oh, you bruised your hip," she said.
"That's not my hip."
"So, where is your hip bone?"
"It's here." Three inches up from the bruised swelling on my thigh.
"Oh my god. It's like you have a second hip!"
She recommended ice and Advil. I felt a little cautious about taking advice from someone who just misidentified my hip bone, but couldn't think of anything better to do.
My mom took one look at me and said, "I have been riding for years and never done any damage like that!"
"That's true," said my step-father, "But generally your mom falls over because she is pedaling so slowly she actually loses the force to stay upright."
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