Funny How Falling Feels Like Flying…
The hospital report read “fell off his bike,” as though I’d fallen off my favorite bar stool at a local watering hole.
I wish.
Granted, I was riding my wife, Myssy’s, Trek mountain bike, mostly on the trails of Sea Pines, on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. So it’s not like I was going 40 mph down the Pyrenees Mountains during the Tour de France, which can claim lives. But I was cutting through this gated community – much like Detective Harper Stowe’s villain in Diagram of Death (a shameless plug – LOL) – turning from Tupelo to Lawton, cockily gaining speed and forgetting the rain, just before I would jump on the glorious-at-low-tide South Beach for the final, victorious, inspirational phase of my ride (my Paris), when both tires simultaneously lost their connection with the wet pavement.
As Jeff Bridges sang, “Funny how falling feels like flying… for a little while.” I can assure you any time that happens, with inertia and weight, there’s going to be pain. Sadly, I’m becoming an expert.
Two years ago, on the Sunday morning of Labor Day Weekend, also as part of the Great Cycle Challenge, a month-long ride to raise money for kids’ cancer research, in which I proudly participate, the same occurrence with my road bike took me down. The Department of Highways had recently cleaned the ditches on my route, leaving behind a nearly-invisible film of dirt and mud on the secondary roads. A light rain that morning made the combination lethal. The first body parts to hit the pavement were my left shoulder, rib cage, and hip.
It happened so fast I literally was one instant negotiating the turn back into my neighborhood, the next, staring at the sky, writhing in pain, and cursing profusely. I cracked a few ribs on that one. How do I know? I remember well sneezing twice over the next week. Enough said. After a day off, my next four or five rides were limited to Riverbend, so I wouldn’t have to get my heart and lungs working at full capacity climbing the hills of our beautiful state of West Virginia.
This time my brain knew I was going down. I remember feeling mad at myself for being careless… and beginning to yell FU%*# on impact. Again turning left, my grip deathlike on the round, straight handlebar and brake, it was my left pinky that had me most concerned as I assessed myself, after I gingerly rolled over from face down on the pavement (which took a half minute to figure out). The knee, elbow, and heal of the hand were all scraped moderately, but the little ol’ pinky seemed mangled to the point where I wasn’t sure if I wasn’t seeing bone through the underside cut (the doctor later showed me my intact tendon through the slash before he sewed it up). It looked like a near pinky-decapitation as it pointed unnaturally left and out unto the great beyond.
Remounting the bike was extremely difficult, in both cases, but getting my digits moving in the right direction is always important to me. (Once I did call for a ride, mainly because my handlebars were so bent the gears wouldn’t shift, and also because I had a baseball-sized contusion on the knee). I was offered a lift on this occasion by a gentleman but I didn’t want to subject his van to my blood, wet, and filth.
Realizing the finger would need professional attention, I skipped the beach and took the shortest route home. After all, that’s my guitar chording hand, and my what-I-like-to-call “pinky leads” are becoming more proficient of late.
So away we went to clean and quiet HH Hospital, where we encountered a giggling PA – a Dan Tyminski look-alike (Man of Constant Sorrow singer) – telling me motorized (bike or boat) is the only way to go, and an equally pleasant Doctor who well knew, as a former Kansas resident, the Huggy Bear-Bill Self hoops rivalry/friendship.
Properly numbed and said-appendage only dislocated, a quick pull and five stitches sealed the deal and had us on our way. I know many will say, and have said, when is enough enough? Why? And What For? I’ve dealt with pain, broken bones, and injuries my entire life. Yes, the hurt and the recovery are a little tougher at 60. But cancer is a beast, and if I can help some brilliant people chip away at it, until a cure is found, especially for the children, I’ll continue to do the best I can.
Thanks to the Red Dragons Class of ’82 “S” section, classmates Cindy Shope Strock and Carla Slack VanWyck, along with our Vice-Principal Becky Goodwin, and my sweet Mylissa, for getting the donation ball rolling. Tomorrow is Match Day if you’re considering a donation, just click the below link. Much thanks to you all and God Bless!
