It's interesting to look back on your thoughts from months ago, when things go entirely different than you ever anticipated. Well, here's a fine example of that. I wrote this on Tuesday morning, June 26th, 2012 - the day of the Exeter Crit. When I wrote this up planning to put myself in great position for the finish as I did at Keith Berger on Sunday the 24th. It was great - my positioning could have been slightly better...going into the sprint I was in 7th, but too far back on the top three to get up there. I was already into 6th place, and was next to a younger rider - he was about 3 feet to my left so I had a real clean lane - when out of nowhere someone completely cleaned out my front wheel. He came from behind me and on my right side, where no one was when I started the sprint so I was focused forward and to the left - working to pick off a couple final guys. Had my acceleration been typical to me, I would've given a really great battle for 4th place. But that was long gone when I hit the ground at a touch over 38 miles per hour. It would have been my best ever race. Even if I ended up in 5th, it would've outweighed anything: 2nd at Washington County GC, Winning the 4/5 Witches' Cup, controlling an entire crit - placing in all 3 primes and 2nd in the finish. Would've put all those to shame. But some ignorant and foolish rider took me out...I could never find a video of the finish to figure out who did it, because I didn't see a damn thing when it happened.
So here I am, almost 5 months later, and nothing for the rest of summer went according to plan. Actually, it went quite a lot worse. I did a few smaller races, but never returned to the fitness I had back in June. I've flat out missed over 4 whole weeks training since that crash (only a few days due to injury). I probably missed 4 weeks in the previous 4 years. I'm getting back into riding consistently...not feeling perfect, but much better is for sure. After this weekend I'll be into my 2013 training and getting set to run my 24 Miler birthday run in January.
Here's my write-up that was from June 26th...which was effectively the end of my 2012 season:
Title: Self-punishment to yield self-benefit
"Everyone knows that in order to grow you need to challenge yourself and work your ass off, sometimes to a point that is seemingly beyond your capacity (but really you just learn that your capabilities are greater than you ever imagined). That's what cycling has been to me. Ever since I really started racing bike last spring and declared myself a cyclist a year ago, I have been growing so fast my only rationalization of it is to soak up every bit of it. For a while I just accepted it and loved it, as naturally as anyone would. But a couple months ago, when I was a Category 4 racer and I wanted to race Green Mountain Stage Race as a Cat 2, I realized that accepting improvement was not nearly enough anymore. I was going to have to embrace every little component of cycling in order to grow as I needed for myself: making sure my body position is stable and smooth, knowing how to race and not merely racing, knowing every last strength extremely well...and knowing my weaknesses even more, and on and on. There is a theme in cycling when it comes to getting better: knowledge is absolute power.
A teammate and good friend, Jeff, has been guiding me through this process and with excellent effectiveness. He might know my capabilities - both intellectual and physical - even more than I do. I am slowing gaining progress on learning how to race well, something that is borderline subconscious for Jeff after his years of high level racing. It is extremely hard to learn to race when your focus is jumping categories quickly. When you upgrade really quickly you don't have time to test yourself with attacks, bold moves, igniting a breakaway, and drilling the hills so hard you think you're going to explode (with the hopes that everyone is even worse off than you by the summit). You learn to race just smart enough and just strong enough to ensure those upgrade points keep coming - but by doing this you merely learn to race in a comfort zone that results in...well...a result, regardless of how good or bad it is. You get many top 10's and not so many wins, where a couple more months in the category would yield big wins. Along the way you're bound to get a W here or there but while your focus is winning, the strategy is getting yourself to the next level. In order to ensure this, you sacrifice a little bit of that top end of the potential that is needed to yield a win.
Now that I am Category 2, something I desired to complete at the end of the season, it is an entirely different sport. I was beautifully positioned on Sunday at the Keith Berger Crit for at very worst a top 10 (my head was 100% on a top 5 as we went down the back straightaway), and it fell apart in milliseconds. And I couldn't do a damn thing about it. All of Monday I was struggling to focus on anything else, I wanted to find where I failed to adapt to the situation and give myself the edge above everyone else. I couldn't find it. I was ready to give an amazing effort at a top finish, and it disappeared in front of me and I was hopeless in doing so. As much as I hate failing at a goal because I made a mistake, I learn so much from these things: I have had few situations in which I made an error that was fatal to my finish. At the Nutmeg crit, I foolishly went on a massive bridging effort and then breakaway for half of the race. I got sucked back into the pack despite trying to stay away. I recovered enough for a 4th place in the end. No longer will I get such chances, every little thing you do to waste energy will cut you down in the finish. If that wasn't enough, the guys I am racing for cash and upgrade points are amazing atheltes. They are guys who write off people like me as 'not worth the worry' and cruise seemingly effortlessly to victory."
It was interesting reading this after going back through past drafted, but not posted blogs. I think that should be the key reason many people write their own diaries (whether public or private), so you can put yourself back in time to when you wrote it.
It's nice to see a little flicker of the excitement I had within me back in such prime fitness this summer (even though I wasn't even close to where I could have ended up in 2012). That excitement about my current fitness is no longer there, but it is not a bad thing as I know I am sitting in what I would like to describe, mathematically, as a 'local minimum'. Not sure if that has ever been used in actual endurance sport terminology, but here is my definition: The time point that signifies the lowest fitness on a periodic or seasonal scale.
My excitement about my fitness may no longer be present, but it has been replaced by the raging fire that will ensure great levels of improvement.
A Man and His Pursuit of Glory through ~Cycling~ Running?.
Showing posts with label Crash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Crash. Show all posts
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Thursday, November 17, 2011
My First Crash: 31.8MPH+Asphalt+Travis = ....
For those of you who know me personally, you probably already know that I broke my clavicle on Tuesday. I figured I would give a quick update before I meet with my orthopedic surgeon tomorrow. It appears as though it is going to be an optional surgery or non-surgery situation, but I will definitely listen to the advice of my surgeon and family friend (who happens to be an excellent surgeon and even better person) very closely.
Rewind to midday Tuesday. It was gorgeous out. Best weather imaginable: low-60's, light wind, cloudy. I opted to wear arm warmers and knee warmers for my easy-ish 30min warm-up to make sure my body was properly heated up for a killer 8x30sec all out accelerations from an approximate lead out speed of 26mph. I use a little hill (50m, 3-4% grade) so I can accelerate easily - as if I were drafting my 6 foot teammate :). Then, about 10m into the flat, I hammer. All out for just over a quarter mile, or 30 seconds, 'til my heart feels like it's going to pop. Did the warm up and shed my arm and knee warmers at my house. Spun lightly to the short, slight hill, pulled a 180 and was in my lead-in to interval #1. For a workout like this with 8 reps, they are misery for intervals #1 & #2 because the effort is insanely high and foreign. You feel like you're killing it for 3, 4, and the start of #5, because you hit the groove and haven't built up too much lactic acid. Then it is back to misery, but it hurts because of lactic acid...and you dig deeper each interval. It starts at midway through #5, then you're not recovered for #6 so it hurts within about 10 seconds. #7 you're lucky if the acceleration has any snap whatsoever. #8 feels like you got no rest after 7. Numbers 7 and 8 are what a lot of people say is what "separates the men from the boys". But this doesn't do it justice, because everyone is doing it. Getting yourself to the point where the legs feel like they're bleeding and your lungs burn is only the set-up, every one hits this. The key is denying it, being insulted by the pain, and digging deeper than you did the last time you did this workout. This is that beautiful place where races are won. Not by wheel-lengths, or meters. By centimeters, on a good day. To quote a classic movie (Fast and Furious, the Original) "It doesn't matter if you win by an inch or a mile. Winning's winning."
So, this is pretty much how excited I was for this workout, my last effort before a race Saturday where I planned to capture one sprint at a minimum. I was going through the workout just as described above. First two sucked. Then I settled in, #3 wasn't as fast as I hoped but still felt good. #4 came along and my heart rate was not fully recovered in the 3 minute window (started #4's lead-in at an HR of 132...for me, I consider rested mid-120's). I was working on properly gearing into the sprint and shifting as necessary (as, if you've been keeping up on my posts, this has caused me to spin out or not be able to accelerated properly in recent sprints). I started the sprint in my 53-15 (4th biggest gear), immediately went into the 53-14, a couple seconds later into the 53-13. This brings me up to just over 30mph on a flat in the headwind I was set-up with (that conveniently simulates the first sprint of Saturdays race!) at a cadence of right about 100rpm. Then comes the best part...that very moment you're spinning fast and smooth and put it into the very last gear you have. Where there is no concern but cranking every last watt, utilizing every ounce of muscle in your legs, core, and arms...something that is unique to cycling from almost any other sport in this exact moment - the no-cylinders-left-behind dead sprint. This, when fresh, can get me to 36mph in such a situation...but in a training cycle with a few intervals in me, I'll hit 34mph or so with that pleasant headwind.
I click the last gear. It hesitates (which has happened before...and with a recently replaced rear shifter and shifter cable is not a rarity), but it usually engages after 1 second. This time it didn't. Just before I would have shifted down then up again, it completely skips. This rockets my cadence up somewhere around 150rpm (my SRM showed 144rpm at this very moment), which is well above my capabilities...I think I can max it out at 135rpm, which is obnoxiously bouncy and dangerous at best. As my legs accelerate beyond their capacity, my chain catches in the 53-12. The sheer force from 150rpm and my biggest gear torques myself and my bike far more intensely than any theme park ride, ski crash, or personal experience I have ever had. I'm guessing it was something like the jerk of a pedal to the floor acceleration of a Ferrari. (Note: I'm not kidding). What happened next was the quickest turn of events of my life: the whole this happened crazy fast but when thinking back seem like freeze-frames. I was looking directly at the ground and within milliseconds I was pummeled into the ground at precisely 31.8MPH. Direct to my head and left shoulder. Going completely rag-doll, my hip lashes into the pavement and I slide on the pavement for a few seconds while my bike catapults off the side of the road; losing the bottles and my cell phone/ID/cash bag departing my back pocket as quickly as my Oakley Raders jumped off my face.
Considering this was my first cycling crash I was surprisingly, IMHO, very well collected. Being used to pretty solid spills while freestyle skiing, I had been shaken up before...but nothing at all like this crash. My first instinct has always been: "Inventory". This is that critical moment, immediately after such an event when you assess 1) your head/brain 2) your body 3) your situation. Yes, situation comes third...because if you have no brain or body, there's no concern if a car is coming. Fortunately, I was just a bit to the right of the white line and was, only moments before, travelling at approximately the 35MPH speed limit - so if I car was coming behind me it wouldn't be flying at 20MPH more than me...I hope. Back to the inventory: 1A) I was sprinting, my gear slipped, then I went down hard. I could recall being on just my front wheel and being flipped over and seeing behind me as I slid on the pavement. Brain, check!, no serious initial head injury. 1B) I 'feel' okay. I know exactly where I am (RT88, 0.5mi south of home, ocean-side of the road). I can see completely straight. Brain test 2, check!, likely no concussion at all. (Aside: if you're asking "did he seriously do this" the answer is a resounding yes) Next up...body: Left side is burning/numb, head is throbbing a bit. Body: intact, but quite shaken up...well beyond any previous experience...but nothing that freaks me out. Thirdly, situation: I'm definitely not in the middle of the road, I'm just to the safe side of the white line ("phew!"), and people are already getting out of their cars. At this point I know I'm safe, and I'm going to be totally fine. I remain laying down while two individuals (a kind fellow name Tom Patterson and a woman, named Liz, who was clearly more freaked out and reasonably more concerned than me). I collected my breath, wits, and relaxed a bit. At this point I was nearly certain my head was fine I told the two people I knew everything that happened and everything that was going on at the moment...and informed them I was likely going to miss my race on Saturday. Tom asked if he should call an ambulance, but I told him to wait as I felt fairly good considering and wanted a couple minutes to assess the situation before I made such a decision. At this point I didn't think I had really hurt myself. Head was good. Body was still resetting and felt like some bruising and solid road-rash (Yes! Badass points!). I removed my helmet (glasses had decided to remove themselves already) and then looked at it and said, fully audibly "Thank You".
Next, I stood up. Retrospectively this was a bad idea because had I actually (despite such certainty) knocked my brain around, I could have instantly collapsed, further injuring my body and head. As I stood I was very light-headed, but I managed to stumble and stay upright. At this point my sense of 'feel' was coming back and I felt something weird in my shoulder: it was definitely no pain (yet), but was an awkward tingly sensation that (looking back at it) reminded me of when I had a super small break to my wrist. I slowly reached with my right hand towards the most reasonable spot for any non-blacked out cyclist would: the good ol' clavicle. I touched it, felt a rather rigid bump under the skin, and came to the quick conclusion that I had some level of a fractured clavicle. This meant I was not going anywhere fast. I decided it was wise to return to my location on the cool, leafy pavement. In combination with being shaken up, the realization I broke a bone put me over the edge and my return to the pavement was choppy at very best. Controlled fall is a better description. Tom and Liz insisted that I not use a phone...thus, I had Tom call my Dad, tell him that I had crashed my bike and was fine, and was 0.5 miles south of the house on route 88. Because I knew the next stop was the hospital (and Tom only got my Dad's voicemail) I figured it was most intelligent to call an ambulance as no professional had cleared me of major head or back injuries...although I am clearly a reliable reference. So I grabbed a few sips of water while I waited, asked what sort of condition my baby (aka bike) was in, and the lady who lived across the street, Lisa Nolan, offered me a towel to keep me warm. Initially I said I was all set, but that's before the 60F pavement had settled in. I later took her up on this offer as we waited for the meat wagon to arrive. Tom said I busted a front spoke and thus it was totally out of true, but the frame looked okay (aka no major cracks). I have since looked over it and it appears okay, yay!
As we "hung out" some cars whizzed by...literally everyone was saying 'what could people be in such a rush for that they don't slow down when cars are parked on the road and people are huddled around a person laying on the road'. Even though I was on the shoulder, I audibly agreed. Regarding the drivers, "what fools" I thought to myself "what if your son or daughter was laying here?" Tom called the Falmouth rescue, which is fair...because there is a station 1.25 miles from the 'crash site'. But they had to refer to Cumberland rescue, as we were in Cumberland, but that station is a good 5 miles away down Tuttle Rd. I knew it was going to be a while, which was fine because nothing was critical. But I was getting antsy...and, worse, pain was starting to set in and I wanted to get the hell off the ground. I talked to my Dad on my phone, which I located when the others were looking around for it (haha). Told him all was well and I busted my collar bone, but it was fine (fine to me equals no compound fracture or unbearable pain, thus no compound fracture. I don't know how a compound feels...but I don't want to. My guess is more like shock than pain lol). Made sure to let him know my head was perfectly fine: which was proven to the few onlookers when I eventually rattled off address, DOB, SSN, my exact location, how exactly the crash occurred (which I don't think a single person actually understood), no car was involved, and, yes, I crashed completely unaided by terrain/potholes or other vehicles...the only thing that actually sucked to admit. One other thing I told my Dad was the classic "Sorry for scaring you!" I also talked to Jason briefly. He asked if he should come back from business in NH, I laughed and told him "Dude, I appreciate the gesture, but seriously I am fine".
The first (preliminary) paramedic was a guy named George, who assured me that the 'big guys' were going to arrive momentarily, but he was nearby when the call came in. I figured it would be another 2 minutes or so. George basically ensured I was mentally aware and got the details of what happened first hand. The one thing I had difficulty remembering is who arrived first...my Dad or the ambulance...because it was a flurry of questions and concerns at that point haha. My Dad gave me the "Awwww shit, really?!" look when he first saw me. I'm sure he could tell I was in good spirits on the phone, whether he thought it was true or to comfort him is up in the air...but he usually has a good read on me so I'm guessing he was pretty sure I was okay. But I know he would be concerned even if I called him safely from home excitedly saying "Yo bud, I got some road rash today!". What can I say, he's a great guy :). I am pretty sure he beat the ambulance...and set a WR (yes, a world record) for fastest time from Allen Ave to the Foreside...absolutely destroying my brother's former WR/PR of XX minutes (Jason's secret remains safe). You might not think beating his time is impressive...but he had a girlfriend who lived over there and they were together for like a decade, which included highschool and collegiate shenanagans. My brother's time is 'erroneous on all accounts' as my Dad's was surely in the single digits, thanks to that Saab 9.5 Aero's killer engine! As my Dad's car pulled in behind where I was laying, on of the kind ladies said "Oh my god this person is coming in fast". I laughed and said "what kind of car?". She said, "it's black". I asked "does the license plate start with 113?". She said "Yes", confirming it was, in fact, my father. I told her it was my Dad and he can come in as fast as he wants as long as he doesn't hurt anyone. Knowing my Dad's licence plate further proved to me, and everyone else, I was fine. I was relieved to see my Dad more for his own good than my own, as I knew everything was okay...but he needed to see it to know I was okay. Lesson about my Dad: He's badass and awesome and will be by one of his children's sides in record time....even if he is told very firmly by me "TAKE YOUR TIME. I AM FINE. I WON'T LEAVE BEFORE YOU GET HERE!"
So there's Part 1 of my exciting sprint workout gone awry! Part 2 is going to discuss all the fun stuff of hanging out with the paramedics, the first two days of recovery, how freakin' lame pain meds are, and my consult with my orthopedic surgeon. Oh yeah, and a meeting regarding a potential job!
Rewind to midday Tuesday. It was gorgeous out. Best weather imaginable: low-60's, light wind, cloudy. I opted to wear arm warmers and knee warmers for my easy-ish 30min warm-up to make sure my body was properly heated up for a killer 8x30sec all out accelerations from an approximate lead out speed of 26mph. I use a little hill (50m, 3-4% grade) so I can accelerate easily - as if I were drafting my 6 foot teammate :). Then, about 10m into the flat, I hammer. All out for just over a quarter mile, or 30 seconds, 'til my heart feels like it's going to pop. Did the warm up and shed my arm and knee warmers at my house. Spun lightly to the short, slight hill, pulled a 180 and was in my lead-in to interval #1. For a workout like this with 8 reps, they are misery for intervals #1 & #2 because the effort is insanely high and foreign. You feel like you're killing it for 3, 4, and the start of #5, because you hit the groove and haven't built up too much lactic acid. Then it is back to misery, but it hurts because of lactic acid...and you dig deeper each interval. It starts at midway through #5, then you're not recovered for #6 so it hurts within about 10 seconds. #7 you're lucky if the acceleration has any snap whatsoever. #8 feels like you got no rest after 7. Numbers 7 and 8 are what a lot of people say is what "separates the men from the boys". But this doesn't do it justice, because everyone is doing it. Getting yourself to the point where the legs feel like they're bleeding and your lungs burn is only the set-up, every one hits this. The key is denying it, being insulted by the pain, and digging deeper than you did the last time you did this workout. This is that beautiful place where races are won. Not by wheel-lengths, or meters. By centimeters, on a good day. To quote a classic movie (Fast and Furious, the Original) "It doesn't matter if you win by an inch or a mile. Winning's winning."
So, this is pretty much how excited I was for this workout, my last effort before a race Saturday where I planned to capture one sprint at a minimum. I was going through the workout just as described above. First two sucked. Then I settled in, #3 wasn't as fast as I hoped but still felt good. #4 came along and my heart rate was not fully recovered in the 3 minute window (started #4's lead-in at an HR of 132...for me, I consider rested mid-120's). I was working on properly gearing into the sprint and shifting as necessary (as, if you've been keeping up on my posts, this has caused me to spin out or not be able to accelerated properly in recent sprints). I started the sprint in my 53-15 (4th biggest gear), immediately went into the 53-14, a couple seconds later into the 53-13. This brings me up to just over 30mph on a flat in the headwind I was set-up with (that conveniently simulates the first sprint of Saturdays race!) at a cadence of right about 100rpm. Then comes the best part...that very moment you're spinning fast and smooth and put it into the very last gear you have. Where there is no concern but cranking every last watt, utilizing every ounce of muscle in your legs, core, and arms...something that is unique to cycling from almost any other sport in this exact moment - the no-cylinders-left-behind dead sprint. This, when fresh, can get me to 36mph in such a situation...but in a training cycle with a few intervals in me, I'll hit 34mph or so with that pleasant headwind.
I click the last gear. It hesitates (which has happened before...and with a recently replaced rear shifter and shifter cable is not a rarity), but it usually engages after 1 second. This time it didn't. Just before I would have shifted down then up again, it completely skips. This rockets my cadence up somewhere around 150rpm (my SRM showed 144rpm at this very moment), which is well above my capabilities...I think I can max it out at 135rpm, which is obnoxiously bouncy and dangerous at best. As my legs accelerate beyond their capacity, my chain catches in the 53-12. The sheer force from 150rpm and my biggest gear torques myself and my bike far more intensely than any theme park ride, ski crash, or personal experience I have ever had. I'm guessing it was something like the jerk of a pedal to the floor acceleration of a Ferrari. (Note: I'm not kidding). What happened next was the quickest turn of events of my life: the whole this happened crazy fast but when thinking back seem like freeze-frames. I was looking directly at the ground and within milliseconds I was pummeled into the ground at precisely 31.8MPH. Direct to my head and left shoulder. Going completely rag-doll, my hip lashes into the pavement and I slide on the pavement for a few seconds while my bike catapults off the side of the road; losing the bottles and my cell phone/ID/cash bag departing my back pocket as quickly as my Oakley Raders jumped off my face.
Here's the frame-by-frame low down: The torque lifted my rear wheel off the ground and I started rotating around my front wheel. This was far more torque than I could possibly put out in any normal circumstances (too bad my power meter wasn't working properly...). Think about full on revving your engine in neutral and jumping it into 5th gear. Your car would literally lift off. This is precisely what me and my wonderful Madone 5.2 did. So I'm riding on my front wheel, knowing nothing good can come of this, and then the bike drops to the left, the front wheel slips out, and bam! my head and shoulder crash into the asphalt. There wasn't really any pain. I knew it was going to hurt within seconds once the thrill/fright halted and I had my wits back about me. My whole body hit the ground. Yard saleeee! And I slid, relatively quickly, to a stop.
(The last thing my SRM saw: 31.8MPH, HR = 178bpm, then the low-balling cadence and power thanks to a toast SRM battery: 144rpm, 728W)
Considering this was my first cycling crash I was surprisingly, IMHO, very well collected. Being used to pretty solid spills while freestyle skiing, I had been shaken up before...but nothing at all like this crash. My first instinct has always been: "Inventory". This is that critical moment, immediately after such an event when you assess 1) your head/brain 2) your body 3) your situation. Yes, situation comes third...because if you have no brain or body, there's no concern if a car is coming. Fortunately, I was just a bit to the right of the white line and was, only moments before, travelling at approximately the 35MPH speed limit - so if I car was coming behind me it wouldn't be flying at 20MPH more than me...I hope. Back to the inventory: 1A) I was sprinting, my gear slipped, then I went down hard. I could recall being on just my front wheel and being flipped over and seeing behind me as I slid on the pavement. Brain, check!, no serious initial head injury. 1B) I 'feel' okay. I know exactly where I am (RT88, 0.5mi south of home, ocean-side of the road). I can see completely straight. Brain test 2, check!, likely no concussion at all. (Aside: if you're asking "did he seriously do this" the answer is a resounding yes) Next up...body: Left side is burning/numb, head is throbbing a bit. Body: intact, but quite shaken up...well beyond any previous experience...but nothing that freaks me out. Thirdly, situation: I'm definitely not in the middle of the road, I'm just to the safe side of the white line ("phew!"), and people are already getting out of their cars. At this point I know I'm safe, and I'm going to be totally fine. I remain laying down while two individuals (a kind fellow name Tom Patterson and a woman, named Liz, who was clearly more freaked out and reasonably more concerned than me). I collected my breath, wits, and relaxed a bit. At this point I was nearly certain my head was fine I told the two people I knew everything that happened and everything that was going on at the moment...and informed them I was likely going to miss my race on Saturday. Tom asked if he should call an ambulance, but I told him to wait as I felt fairly good considering and wanted a couple minutes to assess the situation before I made such a decision. At this point I didn't think I had really hurt myself. Head was good. Body was still resetting and felt like some bruising and solid road-rash (Yes! Badass points!). I removed my helmet (glasses had decided to remove themselves already) and then looked at it and said, fully audibly "Thank You".
Next, I stood up. Retrospectively this was a bad idea because had I actually (despite such certainty) knocked my brain around, I could have instantly collapsed, further injuring my body and head. As I stood I was very light-headed, but I managed to stumble and stay upright. At this point my sense of 'feel' was coming back and I felt something weird in my shoulder: it was definitely no pain (yet), but was an awkward tingly sensation that (looking back at it) reminded me of when I had a super small break to my wrist. I slowly reached with my right hand towards the most reasonable spot for any non-blacked out cyclist would: the good ol' clavicle. I touched it, felt a rather rigid bump under the skin, and came to the quick conclusion that I had some level of a fractured clavicle. This meant I was not going anywhere fast. I decided it was wise to return to my location on the cool, leafy pavement. In combination with being shaken up, the realization I broke a bone put me over the edge and my return to the pavement was choppy at very best. Controlled fall is a better description. Tom and Liz insisted that I not use a phone...thus, I had Tom call my Dad, tell him that I had crashed my bike and was fine, and was 0.5 miles south of the house on route 88. Because I knew the next stop was the hospital (and Tom only got my Dad's voicemail) I figured it was most intelligent to call an ambulance as no professional had cleared me of major head or back injuries...although I am clearly a reliable reference. So I grabbed a few sips of water while I waited, asked what sort of condition my baby (aka bike) was in, and the lady who lived across the street, Lisa Nolan, offered me a towel to keep me warm. Initially I said I was all set, but that's before the 60F pavement had settled in. I later took her up on this offer as we waited for the meat wagon to arrive. Tom said I busted a front spoke and thus it was totally out of true, but the frame looked okay (aka no major cracks). I have since looked over it and it appears okay, yay!
(Weaksauce road rash. Teaser pic...X-Rays are wayyy cooler)
As we "hung out" some cars whizzed by...literally everyone was saying 'what could people be in such a rush for that they don't slow down when cars are parked on the road and people are huddled around a person laying on the road'. Even though I was on the shoulder, I audibly agreed. Regarding the drivers, "what fools" I thought to myself "what if your son or daughter was laying here?" Tom called the Falmouth rescue, which is fair...because there is a station 1.25 miles from the 'crash site'. But they had to refer to Cumberland rescue, as we were in Cumberland, but that station is a good 5 miles away down Tuttle Rd. I knew it was going to be a while, which was fine because nothing was critical. But I was getting antsy...and, worse, pain was starting to set in and I wanted to get the hell off the ground. I talked to my Dad on my phone, which I located when the others were looking around for it (haha). Told him all was well and I busted my collar bone, but it was fine (fine to me equals no compound fracture or unbearable pain, thus no compound fracture. I don't know how a compound feels...but I don't want to. My guess is more like shock than pain lol). Made sure to let him know my head was perfectly fine: which was proven to the few onlookers when I eventually rattled off address, DOB, SSN, my exact location, how exactly the crash occurred (which I don't think a single person actually understood), no car was involved, and, yes, I crashed completely unaided by terrain/potholes or other vehicles...the only thing that actually sucked to admit. One other thing I told my Dad was the classic "Sorry for scaring you!" I also talked to Jason briefly. He asked if he should come back from business in NH, I laughed and told him "Dude, I appreciate the gesture, but seriously I am fine".
The first (preliminary) paramedic was a guy named George, who assured me that the 'big guys' were going to arrive momentarily, but he was nearby when the call came in. I figured it would be another 2 minutes or so. George basically ensured I was mentally aware and got the details of what happened first hand. The one thing I had difficulty remembering is who arrived first...my Dad or the ambulance...because it was a flurry of questions and concerns at that point haha. My Dad gave me the "Awwww shit, really?!" look when he first saw me. I'm sure he could tell I was in good spirits on the phone, whether he thought it was true or to comfort him is up in the air...but he usually has a good read on me so I'm guessing he was pretty sure I was okay. But I know he would be concerned even if I called him safely from home excitedly saying "Yo bud, I got some road rash today!". What can I say, he's a great guy :). I am pretty sure he beat the ambulance...and set a WR (yes, a world record) for fastest time from Allen Ave to the Foreside...absolutely destroying my brother's former WR/PR of XX minutes (Jason's secret remains safe). You might not think beating his time is impressive...but he had a girlfriend who lived over there and they were together for like a decade, which included highschool and collegiate shenanagans. My brother's time is 'erroneous on all accounts' as my Dad's was surely in the single digits, thanks to that Saab 9.5 Aero's killer engine! As my Dad's car pulled in behind where I was laying, on of the kind ladies said "Oh my god this person is coming in fast". I laughed and said "what kind of car?". She said, "it's black". I asked "does the license plate start with 113?". She said "Yes", confirming it was, in fact, my father. I told her it was my Dad and he can come in as fast as he wants as long as he doesn't hurt anyone. Knowing my Dad's licence plate further proved to me, and everyone else, I was fine. I was relieved to see my Dad more for his own good than my own, as I knew everything was okay...but he needed to see it to know I was okay. Lesson about my Dad: He's badass and awesome and will be by one of his children's sides in record time....even if he is told very firmly by me "TAKE YOUR TIME. I AM FINE. I WON'T LEAVE BEFORE YOU GET HERE!"
So there's Part 1 of my exciting sprint workout gone awry! Part 2 is going to discuss all the fun stuff of hanging out with the paramedics, the first two days of recovery, how freakin' lame pain meds are, and my consult with my orthopedic surgeon. Oh yeah, and a meeting regarding a potential job!
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