I'm Going to Die Today

"I'm going to die today.  How do I NOT die today?"

That was the first thought I had on my commute home Thursday night.  After three months of using my indoor training stand, I had finally gotten the rear tire on my bike swapped out for a road tire, the weather was clear and warm, the winds low.  I rode my bike to work that morning for the first time in nine months.

It was a beautiful ride.  All that indoor training had worked wonders as my first commute of the season was a full 10 minutes shorter than my final commute last autumn.  I felt good - that "exercise high" people talk about when you've moved enough with enough intensity to get the endorphins moving.

Then, I had a perfectly normal day at work, finishing my shift with a two hour stint managing the flow of people into the hospital, checking temperatures, verifying their lack of symptoms, feeling grateful that no visitors came to be turned away.

I returned to my office, shut down my work station, put on my bike shorts, strapped on my helmet and headed to the bike cage.  I retrieved my bicyle, loaded my pannier on the back, and headed out.  I was a mile into my commute, had just crossed the Martin Olav Sabo Bridge, with nothing in my mind except the cadence of my legs, "One, two.  One, two.  One two....."  And on it went.

I turned the curve, began shifting up, reached the highest gear halfway down the east side descent, and felt my body relax into the joy of accomplishment.  "I can do this again tomorrow," I thought, as the ease of my commute infused me with confidence.

I was nearing the end of the descent, I looked ahead on the path, the sharp turn to the left so much closer than I had known, my lane covered in loose sand, a clump of bikers in the oncoming lane.  I'm traveling at least 16mph and I know that I cannot navigate the turn, on sand, at that speed; I cannot cross into the oncoming lane.

"I'm going to die today.  How do I NOT die today?"

I aim for the grass and find myself heading straight at two light poles, firmly planted on either side of a utility box, without clearance between the obstacles.  Aiming to go wide, around these items, I find myself barreling headlong toward a small tree.  I veer left to clear it - there's enough space between it and the next tree immediately to my left - and I am airborne, flying over my handlebars, and I know, "I am not going to survive this."

I hit the ground.  Hard.  My right shoulder makes impact along with my head.  My head bounces and my face makes contact.  The right half of my body is stationary and I feel the left half continuing to slide forward in the hard earth.  My neck, back, and hips shift and move in ways I am confident they are not really built to move.  I feel dirt and grit in my teeth.  My right shoulder hurts.  My upper lip got caugt between my top and bottom teeth on impact - I can feel the swelling.  My teeth are undamaged.

"Are you okay?" a passing cyclists asks.

"Yes," I say.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again, slowing down.  "That was bad."

"I'm fine.  I'm going to call my husband," I respond, pushing up, noting that this is probably the last time in awhile I'm going to be able to move my arm like this.

"That looked really bad," he says, watching me sit up and begin fumbling for my pannier, which has dislodged from my rack.  I look around for my bicyle and see it lying several feet beyond me.  The passing cyclist, perhaps assured by the fact that I'm moving about, continues on his ride.  Several more cyclists pass on the trail.

My arms are shaking so bad I can barely manage to hold my phone.  I cannot move my right arm at all.  I begin texting with my left hand - repeatedly deleting mistyped letters. 

"Crashed.  Need ride."  "Hiawatha and 28th"

"Ok.  I'm coming.  Are you ok?"

"Probably."  "I can't really tell."  "No blood."  "My right arm is useless.  Bad headache.  Road rash on my mouth."

"Ow.  Which corner?"

"South west."  I know that if I gather my things, I can walk my bike over to opposite side of the road and sit in a bus bench while I wait.

When Husband arrives, he pulls the bike rack out of the trunk and begins affixing it.  "Can you open my door?" I ask him.

"It should be open," he says, pausing to pull his key fob from his pocket and hitting the unlock button.  "There you go."

I start to tear up.  "I mean, literally," I say to him, "can you literally open my door for me?"

"Oh, shit.  Yes," he says, pausing to open the back passenger door.  I drop my pannier and helmet on the back seat.  He opens the front door and I climb in, using my left hand to pull the door closed behind me and put my seatbelt on, cradling my right forearm against my belly, trying to keep my should from moving.  It hurts all the time, but every slight move causes the pain to skyrocket.

Husband insists on medical care.  He mentions the emergency department.  I have no compound fractures and only a slight amount of blood pooling in my nostrils.  I bargain for the urgent care.  We swing by the house, as it's on our way, and secure my beautiful bicycle in the garage.

After a brief wait with an ice pack, I am seen by the nurse practioner who evaluates me for a concussion, orders a shot of Toradol and X-rays.  I cry through the entire process of having films taken, grateful that I have to hold my breath when the technician takes the images, as it is the only time my ribs are not moving and less of me hurts just slightly less, despite the fact that my shoulder hurts infinitely more.

I have no concussion.  Nothing is broken.  I am given a sling to help keep my shoulder immobile and ordered to take ibuprofen on schedule - 800mg every 8 hours OR 600mg every 6 hours.  When we get home, I realize that my house keys are NOT in the front pocket of my pannier where they ought to be.

Husband and I eat dinner and then head back out to look for them in the grassy area where I crashed my bike.  I start to notice the scraped on my elbows, knees, and face.  I have a scrape above my right eyebrow where the visor of my helmet slid down and cut into my head upon impact.  We see my tire tracks in the dirt where I left the path.  The bent grass is just barely discernible in my path to the crash. 

"Oh, my god," I keep saying over and over and over again.  "I can't believe I didn't die."

"I know," Husband says.  "I'm really glad you're still here and it's incredible that you have so few injuries, considering."

I look down.  "Hey, look!  There's my keys!"  I gingerly bend down to pick them up, tuck them in my pocket, and we begin walking back to the car.  I'm confident that I will not be riding my bike in the next couple of days, but maybe next week, I think.  If my shoulder starts feelings better.

We climb into the car and again, I get my door closed and seat belt buckled using only my left hand and arm.  "You should stay off your bike until your tune-up," Husband says.  My tune up is in 13 days.  "And, you need to replace your helmet."

He is right, of course.

"I'm glad you're alive.  I hope this will remind you to be more careful on future rides," he says, squeezing my leg.

Future rides.  Yes.  I love my bicyle.  I love riding.  I want to climb into the saddle again.  I managed to not die that day.  For that, I am grateful.