End Pavement

Now granted, the pain that needs managing is much, much less than it has been in the recent past, but I have to say I much prefer a 800-mg Ibuprofen washed down with a Newcastle Brown Ale than popping a Vicodin. Call me funny.

Today was an auspicious day when nothing much out of the ordinary happened, which is to say a lot happened.

Today also marks exactly 8 weeks to the day since my bike accident. I talked it over with my physical therapist last appointment, and he thought it would be fine for me to try a ride. “Most important thing to keep in mind,” he told me with a straight face, “is to not wreck.”

Words to live by.

Flashback

Here’s me a few weeks ago:

I haven’t been on my bike since the evening of February 3rd when I either went endo over the handlebars, or just fell forward onto my shoulder and side, and hit the asphalt at around 20 MPH (32 KPH). Things are a little blurry right about then, but the result was a separated shoulder and broken ribs.

Of course, this was preferable to getting hit by or hitting the car that had suddenly pulled in front of me.

After the wreck, I walked the bike the 2/3rds of a mile to a fire station down the road, where I left it outside. When they got there that night, Denyse and Hans took it apart to get it in our car and thus home.

As a matter of fact, I haven’t even had the heart to do much more than give the bike a cursory glance when I went out to finally retrieve my water bottles some days after the accident, when I was more mobile.

An errand

The first thing I did today was to head down to my local bike shop and buy a new helmet; the old one had a dent in it. I got the latest version of my favorite Giro Atlas II (I have a big noggin, AKA a thick skull ;) Decided on the black/gunmetal-gray as a change of pace from my old white one. It has an awesome dial on the back that lets me adjust the size of the internal head strap on the go.

I’m not ashamed to admit to shedding a few tears as I left the store. This was a meaningful moment for me.

Later, after getting cautionary well-wishes from Denyse and Hans, plus a quizzical look from the poodle, I pulled my bike out of the garage and inspected it. Everything looked pretty good — just had to reattach the front tire and connect the brake cable. A few adjustments later, and it seemed to be in fine shape, although I’ll probably want to tune it up soon.

The only real damage apart from some scratched paint was the front reflector had been broken off and was missing. The cold-forged aluminum frame and the rest of the HardRock had come through the trauma much better than I had.

Where to?

I was nervously excited heading out on the road, apprehensive. Not scared, per se, but hyperaware of approaching cars from both directions. Taking it slow, I meandered through a few streets in the neighborhood, tacking back and forth by block, tending upwards.

There had been only a vague idea as to possible routes, but once I was out there, I realized quickly I would only be happy going one place: the scene of the accident.

The rest of the story in the next post: “Eight weeks: uphill”