Back in April I wrote about the “Snakes ‘n’ Ladders” feeling of exercising as one gets older, about smaller setbacks that can have a tendency to punch large holes in your fitness, and punt you back several steps on whatever path you’re on. Some of the snakes are bigger and more damaging than others and one such beast recently rose up to smite me.
The first snake of the year was an episode of kidney stones that put me in a hospital bed for three nights, which was followed by a week of recovery and then a couple weeks of deep snow. The second snake slithered from the bushes at the end of April with an as-yet undetermined chest… something? Who knows, I couldn’t breathe terribly well and breathing is something one needs on the bike. Some snakes are just “life” matters that take you away from the routine and the bike, and a fabulous road trip at the end of May was a delightful snake.
And then there was the big snake.
Tumbling
Christi was away in the big city and I was planning to pop over on a floatplane to spend the night, and then return with her the next day by ferry. I pottered around the house a little and then went for a ride. I was going to be passing the place where I needed to catch the floatplane and decided to pop in and reconnoiter the parking situation. Therein lies the key deviation from the norm that started to line up the holes in the Swiss cheese of accident analysis.
I was 14km into my ride and on the return when I slowed down to around 15km/h and turned into entrance of the local marina. The parking lot I was checking out was over on my right and I glanced over. Then I experienced a “rapid, unscheduled deceleration” and immediately arrived at the scene of the accident.
My handlebars came up at me and thumped me in the chest, as I pitched over them and down towards the ground. I hit my left knee on the ground, and then (I think) the top of my left shoulder, and then *whack* the side of my head. It all happened in a startlingly short space of time. As is my wont, with any kind of accident, I immediately scrambled to my feet to start checking for things dangling off my body or limbs that might not be showing a jaunty angle. Perhaps there is a part of me that quietly thinks that jumping up will make me “not injured”?
Once I’d seen that nothing appeared to be overly broken I tried to figure out just what had happened. It felt like I’d hit something and what I’d hit was a poorly painted and camouflaged-by-light-and-shadows speed bump. Can you spot it in the picture, above, taken the next day? Aside from being not terribly clear, it’s also not a gentle speed bump, it’s a clunker.
By this time I was hurting badly. I hadn’t lost consciousness but I’d hit everything pretty hard. My leg warmers were ripped apart at the knee with suitably deep red revelations from within. My chest was in agony, as was my shoulder, and I was generally in some shock. A few cyclists came by and checked if I was ok. I cancelled the fall alert on my watch–who knew I’d be testing that function?–and then I texted Christi to let her know that I’d fallen but that I was probably ok. Another chap that lives down that end of the island came to check on me. I don’t think anyone saw me go ass over tea kettle but it was reassuring to know that there were people around had I been more badly hurt or, indeed, unconscious.
Optimistically I thought maybe I could ride home. The chain had unshipped but I was able to wrangle it back on, in doing so I realized that I couldn’t really use my left arm. I called my neighbour and asked if he could come collect me in his pickup truck. Thankfully he wasn’t away travelling and was there in 5 mins to get me safely home.
All I knew at that point was that I needed to get scrubbed down, get the gravel out of my leg, hand and anywhere else, and assess my situation. I managed to get in the shower and blast away at my knee. By then it was starting to feel very much like I’d possibly cracked a rib or two. I didn’t think I’d broken my clavicle (I’ve done that three times in my youth, I can self-diagnose that these days) but there was something up with my shoulder. I also didn’t think that I’d suffered a concussion but the startlingly hard impact of head on tarmac and the fact that I was entirely home alone lead me to think that I should probably go to a hospital and get checked out.
I came off the bike at about 12:40pm, by 3pm I was on a ferry, and by 4pm I was checked into the ER at Nanaimo Regional.
Slight sidebar: there’s something about going to the “Emergency Room”, or “Emergency Department” when things don’t really feel like an emergency, which leaves me feeling awkward and a bit silly. To that end I prefer the nomenclature used in the UK of the hospital “A&E”, the Accident & Emergency.
It was a long and agonizing afternoon (and evening) with a doctor finally seeing me around 9pm. I went for x-rays which showed no fractures on the ribs or within the shoulder. The doctor said that rib fractures can only be definitely spotted with a CT scan and that we’d be treating me as if I did have rib fractures. Next up, because of the head hit and the fact that I was “home alone”, I was sent for a CT scan. Hilariously the doctor had asked if the mark on the side of my head was a birth mark. Nope, that mark was made by the inside of the helmet (is that a result of MIPS technology helmets?) Again, the results were good; no sign of concussion or brain bleed etc.
I was discharged with painkillers and managed to get the last ferry back to the island, arriving home just after midnight. It had been a long day. It was an even longer night.
Aftermath
Having cracked a rib or two, in the past, and having had severely bruised ribs I can say that the net result is pretty similar. There is very little that one can do that doesn’t elicit a wince; sneezing, coughing, hiccoughing, lying down, standing up, bending over, it all hurts. Something I learned from the ER doctor was that in treating bruised or cracked ribs it is important to breathe fully, that’s what the painkillers were ultimately for. Apparently short breaths, over an extended time, give your lungs the opportunity to develop pneumonia.
The above combined with a stiffening knee, sore from the missing skin, and a shoulder that was incredibly painful, it was clear I wasn’t going to get much sleep.
There wasn’t much to do on the Sunday except try and not hurt myself anymore. Christi was coming home that night so I busied myself as much as I could. I went down to the Marina to look at the place where I’d come off, to see if it was as bad as it seemed (which is when I made the picture, above). I still couldn’t use my left arm, perhaps more accurately I couldn’t use anything that needed movement from the shoulder.
By Monday I was becoming concerned about the left arm, so I spoke with a buddy of mine who’d had a similar accident and who had torn his rotator cuff, his experience sounded horribly familiar. I decided to see if I could get some professional advice and ended up on the phone with a doctor from the 811 BC Healthline who suggested that it did, indeed, sound like a rotator cuff injury and that I should get it checked out. Living on a small island, getting something “checked out” isn’t a trivial process, and it certainly wasn’t going to be happening on the afternoon of a Monday before Canada Day. So the next morning–Canada Day–I found myself, once again, on a ferry to the big island and to the hospital arriving at 8:15am and not leaving until nearly 6hrs later. The doctor determined that it was most likely a rotator cuff tear but how much and how bad could not be determined without an ultrasound… which couldn’t be done there and then. I left with a cortisone shot in the shoulder, fingers figuratively crossed for a speedy appointment and also hoping that the tear wassn’t so bad that it would need surgery. Rehab for a torn supraspinatus muscle can be a long process.
Too Much Time To Think
I fully realize that things could have been worse, and that there is considerably more suffering in the world, but this is mine, at this moment, and this place is my place for creating and baring all, after all.
If you’re ever been on the fence about wearing a cycling helmet well, I’m not sure I’d be typing this if I had not been wearing mine. As it is I’m definitely having some odd wooziness (which I am attributing to the lack of sleep, but that I am also monitoring closely). I’ve also had some intense tinnitus this week–they do say that someone got his “bell rung”.
The ribs started to ease a little which meant that I could spend all night in bed but unfortunately they got worse again–I think I slept awkwardly on them–and I’ve spent most nights relaying between a reclining chair downstairs and the bedroom. The wound on the knee is starting to heal, although there is still a five inch band of yellow and purple bruising that weirdly wraps all the way around to the back of the knee.
The left arm is still largely unusable which, of course, means that I’ve been doing everything with my right arm which is showing signs of being a little pissed off with the extra workload.
I was very proud of having cycled right through the Canadian winter*–no goose egg months from November through to June. Adding in November and December I’ve ridden 1758 kms (1092 miles) on this go round. One of the prime motivators has been the fact that this is the first summer that has offered the two of us an open calendar for quite a few years; no house moves, no pandemic, no big shows for Christi, no important tasks needing to be attended to on the house. Just a wide open vista of cycling, paddleboarding, fun projects and visits. You know, retired guy shit. For the time being that vista is largely socked in. Summers here are short–it’s July and it’s just getting going and it’ll all be over by September. Right now I can’t ride, can’t paddle, can’t get in the garage, can’t easily play guitar, or swing a camera around.
I find myself fitter than I have been for a few years but essentially lame, feeling like a lost little boat anchor.
Homo semper aliud, Fortuna aliud cogitat
(Man always thinks one thing, fortune another)
Publilius Syrus
Ignoring that I’m not riding as far or as fast as I once did, cycling is one of the few endeavours that makes me feel “young” again. There’s a youthfulness to it; the wind in your face and legs pumping like pistons that makes you forget some of the physical ailments that come with age. I feel somewhat carefree–but always careful–and liberated when I’m on the bike.
But the age you mentally shed roars back to punch you in the face, when you physically hit the tarmac.
I’m not someone who thinks we can mitigate all risk–I wouldn’t cycle at all if that was the case–but this week I’ve found myself asking; is this worth it? If one were to count life in terms of “good summers” then how many do I have left? Can I afford to “lose” one to a split-second dumb accident?
Counterpoint:
Frenchman Robert Marchand set a world 1 hour cycling record in 2017 of 22.547kms. He was 105 years old at the time.
I love cycling but this is a big downside. Falling off when I was younger (and it should be noted that I haven’t had a serious fall since I was a young man) didn’t seem to be that big of a deal, usually just some road rash, maybe a broken bone or two, and a good story. But you don’t bounce off the ground at this age. I remember a pilot once describing an airplane with poor engine-off characteristics as, “gliding like a set of car keys”. It felt like that.
I’ve spent the past two weeks swinging between the two extremes of how quickly can I get back on the bike versus notions of what could more safely replace cycling as a fitness exercise. I realize that for some, like the aforementioned Monsieur Marchand, cycling is the thing, but for me cycling is the thing that allows me the health and fitness to do other things too. Cycling isn’t my hobby, cycling is a gloriously youthful portal.
When we’re younger it sometimes feels like anything is possible at any time. There’s always time, right? Things break, things get fixed. But somewhere along the way some things break and cannot be fixed. I remember, a few years ago, I had to have a tooth removed and it struck me that the gap would remain forever, nothing would grow back. There comes a time when you realize that you’ll never become a doctor, or a fighter pilot, or play in the World Cup. It’s too late. Things are done. The river of endless possibilities starts to narrow and show signs of drying up. Each accident, each loss of some function or other, each diminution of agency serves to highlight the inexorable conveyor belt of time. I’ll be 59 years old at the end of this year, and there will come a time when taking even a small fall from a bike could be dramatic.
But how does one know when to pull the chutes, before the chutes pull you?
On the other hand I haven’t fallen off the bike for many years prior to this incident, so maybe I’ll be fine?
For now I’m trying to take it easy even though I’ve never been a patient patient. But the mental funk, the feeling of uselessness, the feeling of being a burden to others (ok, just Christi), and the feelings of isolation, well those are perhaps the harder fall than the fall itself.
Epilogue
It’s been exactly two weeks since I came off the bike and most of the above was written within the first week or so. There was a lot of rawness going on, physically and mentally. The “go faster stripes” on the side of my head have faded, as has the road rash on my left arm and shoulder. The knee wound isn’t as raw as it was, that’s healing remarkably well. The ribs and pulled muscles are still sore–lots of wincing–and necessary careful movements. The shoulder is still borked; I can lift my arm straight up in front of me, but I cannot lift it to the side. No Vitruvian Man or George Russell “T pose” for me. But I can now, at least, sleep all night in bed. Sorta.
In my minds eye an invisible hand reached down from the sky and simply threw me to the ground like a rag doll. It wasn’t the kind of crash where the bike slides out, or you lose control. No time to react. It was oddly sudden, and shockingly violent given that I wasn’t moving very quickly, and it produced an utterly shaken up and jangled reaction in the body. My Apple Watch gives me all the data for the things that aren’t obvious; the nighttime disturbances in breathing and the dozens of times that I wake up. And the lack of deep sleep, the kind of sleep that aids physical recovery. Blood pressure is up, too. All routine and regularity–and, yes, I mean, er, you know, regularity–got tossed out of the window but I am seeing some signs of those kinds of things calming down, which is a relief.
Still waiting for an ultrasound appointment. It would be nice to see what the longer term ramifications are, for my shoulder.
Ultimately, I’m alive, the sky is blue, the ocean looks amazing, and it’s a beautiful day here. Perfect day for a bike ride, in fact…
*ok, fine, a BC winter, which I realize is not as brutal as other parts of Canada.