The past eight weeks have seen me climbing a metaphorical hill. Yesterday, I was heading up a very real one. My head down, I finally noticed there was dried blood on my handlebars, left over from the night of the accident, the last time I had ridden.
As I mentioned in part 1, it wasn’t that I was scared of the passing cars (approaching me from behind or in front), but more like being super aware of their presence. The farther up the hill I climbed, the tenser that awareness became. There were a few wobbly moments on particularly narrow sections of road, but I tried to concentrate on what I was doing, as well as how my body was responding. If anything started twinging out, especially my shoulder, I was determined to make myself turn around for home.
The hill isn’t the worst I’ve ever done by any means (I probably did only about 600′ of climbing over 3.5 miles), but it was already a personally significant route before the accident. Recovering from hyperthyroidism a few years ago, trying to reclaim some semblance of fitness and strength, this was this road I climbed over and over.
Eventually, I came to the fire station. I had walked here from the accident spot, about 2/3rds of a mile farther down the road.
That night
Still sopping in adrenaline at the time, I at first thought myself scraped up but relatively unscathed. As I walked my bike, however, I began hunching over like Quasimodo as the pain of my separated shoulder and broken ribs arrived. My goal became not walking a little before getting back on my bike to ride home, but instead trying to make it here before collapsing.
I left my bike around back as I looked for the “official” entrance; the back door lead straight into the showers and bedrooms. I needn’t have worried, however, as I discovered after searching the entire place that it was deserted.
It was surreal, stumbling around an empty firehouse in pain, looking for somebody, calling out. The television left on in the break room was the only other sound. They must have been out on a call.
Back outside, I phoned Denyse, then 911. Or maybe it was the other way around — I’m a little fuzzy who I talked to when.
Then I walked around waiting for somebody to show up. I paced back and forth, because I’d already discovered quickly that trying to stand up after sitting was really, really hard. Although it seemed like forever, a cop car flashed by a little later, followed soon after by an indeterminate number of firefighters, EMTs, and police officers, as well as Denyse and Hans.
Closing in
I snapped a cameraphone picture of the firestation, a long time landmark of mine, now with added significance, then resumed my ride while scenes from that night flashed in my head.
Despite it having been eight weeks, I felt pretty good on the cardiovascular front. The climb wasn’t easy, exactly, and required a few pauses along the way, but I was pleased with being able to breathe. The next part of the route had some good climbing (not to mention narrow road), but I stopped when I needed to and pushed myself when I needed to as I had all day.
The closer I got to the intersection, the more amped up I was feeling.
Here’s the spot in Google Earth:
I had been coming from the right/east, headed to the left/west. A car was coming in the opposite direction. As you can see, there’s a curve in the northbound intersection, and cars often take that corner at speed rather than slowing down to turn.
That night, the car did exactly that, turning suddenly in front of me. I braked to avoid them and that was that.
Images
On my way yesterday, I had visions of getting run over at that same intersection, the universe’s way of telling me to stay the hell off a bicycle. I wondered absently what I’d do if I got run down or even just wrecked all on my own. Would I ride again?
Sure, I eventually would, assuming I survived. Like I wrote yesterday, I have a thick skull. ;)
Soon enough, there was the intersection in front of me. I stopped on the side, waiting for cars to go by, then began riding slow arcs around the whole thing, with wry visions of finding skidmarks or my missing front reflector, or even some blood splatters on the curb where I had sat gathering my wits.
Nothing, of course.
I took a few more pictures with my camera, including this one pointed westward in the direction I had been traveling that night:
There’s a bend in the road up ahead, as this angle shows. Even if that car had caught me in their lights, there wouldn’t have been much time to do anything about it as they swung to the left.
After a few more minutes, I started home.
As a measure of how different I am now than I was a few years ago, if I’d come this far up the hill and turned around home, I would have been giddy with the fun downhill zoom and hated the climb.
Yesterday, though, I preferred the climb. It had been much, much easier to stay in the moment, without thoughts of mortality and age and time lost and injury and how much work lies ahead of me.
By the time I got home, though, and despite the resumption of everyday life and rhythms, I had regained something I’d lost track of.
Capture
When I started my physical therapy, I had March 31st penciled in in my mind, with the thought of it being a handy date to look forward to, and a point where I could make a firm plan about finally hiking or biking again.
As it approached, and as I realized that it marked exactly eight weeks, buying the helmet and riding up here was probably inevitable, knowing me.
I sat there at the intersection on my bike, one foot on the curb next to me, feeling my breath. It felt deeper and cleaner than it’s felt in, well, eight weeks.
I found no signs there of my hitting the road, nor of my bicycle skittering across asphalt, nor of me bleeding or hunched over in pain.
I re-captured my breath, though, and that’s better by far.
Aftermath
Today, I’m feeling pretty well. The shoulder probably needs some heat, and my back is feeling screwy — the latter is probably as much from hauling groceries as the ride — but I’m doing pretty well.
When I drove in the garage after the grocery store last night, my bike was leaning in its customary space again against the side wall, the new helmet perched jauntily on the handlebar. I smiled.
Doesn’t mean I’ll start riding crazily just yet, but the aftermath is encouraging. Even just some short walks and the occasional ride or hike would be good for now. By this time next month, I’ll hopefully be in even better shape.
Two months gone by, and my mileage totals for February and March are definitely not what I had been expecting. But here you go for yesterday:
Miles: 7.00
And no matter what you try to do, no matter how good you get, you still have to ride those one at a time.
