YOUR SERVE
What happened?
I was going a little stir crazy after a long day of sitting at the computer writing. So I kitted-up and told the New Yorker that I was going out for a little spin. I added, that since it was such a nice day, I’d probably hit the beach route.
First up, some warming up on Amalfi and the Allenford Sting.
I then headed out south, avoiding the congested and dreaded bike path, down to just past the PCH ramp. Looked out at the ocean- damn it’s pretty out there, late in the day.
Okay, bike path.
Bad move. I spent easily 50% of my ride shouting folks out of the way. Aimlessly wandering cell phoners, dogs, skateboarders, cooler and lawn chair carriers, have-no-fucks-to give saunterers…
Then the road opened up. Dialed it up to a nice easy clip of 18 mph (Strava recorded 18.2).
As I passed the volleyball courts, near parking lot 8, I was looking ahead to anticipate the sweeping right hander when an errant ball came into view. I saw it, for sure, on a directly perpendicular course to the path out in front of me. Decision time. Break hard on the sandy path or NASCAR it and throttle up as it goes by.
I took the latter course of action. The ball bounced onto the sandy surface and spun like a top. Hit it square on. And rode up on top of it. Who would think that would happen? Probably due to my significant mass and an under-inflated ball.
It happened pretty darned quickly, but near as I can tell, the compressed ball released and slung me sideways and slightly up. I impacted the path, hip first, FUCK. ING. HARD. Then elbow, knee, shoulder, head, in rapid succession, in that order.
Hardest impact ever. I had to lay in the fetal position for a little while, folks gathering, to collect the damage report. Moved arms. Check, all good. Wiggle feet. Yep. People are saying “Stay down”. I ask where is my bike. Is it broken? I answer the question, “Are you okay?” with, “I think I’m good. Just give me a minute.”
Then I decided to roll over to my back to get up. Holy mother of God, my left hip hurt. And there was a sickening pain much deeper in my middle parts that I didn’t quite understand.
Put my palms to the sidewalk and attempted to get up. Well, that just wasn’t going to happen. I gritted my teeth and asked if someone could help me to my feet, because I wasn’t getting there on my own. A couple guys, volleyball players straight out of the homoerotic “Top Gun” scene, helped me up. A searing, pain shot through my groin. A pain that said, “You ain’t riding home.”
A compact woman in a “Give me sausages and Beer” t-shirt, said, with a gravelly smoker’s voice, “Do you want me to call the Lifeguards? I know them very well.” I’m not one to accept help very easily, but I knew I needed it.
The guys arrived in seconds and before the truck came to a full stop, the driver shouted, “How old are you?” I heard myself saying “59” and it sounded like a hundred. He spoke into his walkie, “We have a 59 year-old male with injuries from a bike crash.” He exited the vehicle with his partner and started asking me a barrage of questions, including who the current president is. I took a page from Nate Loyal’s post crash handbook and recounted, in detail the circumstances, list and severity of injuries, and level of pain.
All while checking my bike for damage.
I called Serene and she answered the phone with the wife of a cyclist’s salutation, “Are you okay?”
I responded, “Not awesome.”
The guys worked on me with great care and efficiency. Cleaned wounds, applied bandages, and checked vitals. Serene arrived with my pickup, concerned and ready to leap into action. The guys loaded my Trek into the back of their truck and drove me to mine. I took about 12 minutes to get from their tailgate into my truck, then it was off to the ER.
When we arrived we were met by Edwin, a big chunk of Latin sweetness. He gently loaded me into a wheelchair and headed for the door. On the way, he asked, “How old are you?” (I would be asked the same questions about four times). I said, “59”. He said, “Man, you don’t look 59, you are in some shape.” I said, “It’s all about being on that bike I just fell off of.”
He immediately began a conversation with me about how he was thinking about getting a bike and commuting. Asked if it was a good way to get in shape. Oh, it-was-on. Ever asked a cyclist about the benefits of cycling? You’ll need some time.
We had such a nice talk. I told him that I could hook him up with Helen’s, the best bike shop ever. He wanted details, I gave them to him. We were nearly high-fiving by the time I got to check in. The ER was a teeming mess of humanity. I was told by the admitting nurse that it was one of the busiest days that he could remember. He added that it would take hours before I saw anyone.
But he didn’t know about my new friend Edwin. And the Latin mafia. And Serene’s powers of persuasion. Edwin rolled me to an area in the waiting room and said that he would hook ME up. I was into x-ray in minutes.
X-ray was awful. “We need to put your leg… here.” That hurt like a motherfucker. “And here”. Ditto. Adrenalin kicked in and I was shaking like a rescue Chihuahua on the Fourth of July. When they rolled me out, Edwin was waiting to take me to my bed in the hallway with warmed blankets and a privacy screen.
The sounds around me were just awesome. I posted earlier about the woman with alcohol withdrawal and the woman who wanted to heal her gall bladder issue with her mind, but there’s more to that one. She and her husband were arguing… She: “I don’t like the idea of this scan thing, I don’t trust it.” He: “Then why did we come here? Why don’t we just find a local witchdoctor!?” Later, from the doctor: “No ma’am, I didn’t say you are ignorant. I said that it is medically ignorant to refuse help from us and risk dying over a simple procedure.”
Then there was the octogenarian, wildly swinging her arms and shouting things unintelligible while I wondered, “You can’t feel when breasts are slapping around outside your pajama top?”
The x-rays came back negative so, off to CT Scan I went. Same awesome guys, same care and kindness… and pain. A nice nurse named Jessica brought me a couple Vicodin and things got measurably better.
The CT Scan came back with news of two fractures. A small one of the pubic crest, (exactly where you might think that one would be) and a pretty darned significant crack on the inside of the hip socket, which I learned is called the acetabulum. When the doctor described it, he said you have an acetabular fracture. Which sounded like “Asstabular”. Which sounded fantastic.
Turns out, both injuries are non-surgical. I just have to take it easy for a few days and then do some rehab for 6 to 8 weeks. I already miss the bike and can’t wait to get back on it.
Dr. Dan Gellar, a riding buddy and well-respected orthopedic surgeon, sprang into action from the first post, offering to drop everything and go to the ER and has further offered a colleague’s help along with a bone stem machine to speed healing. Mensch.
Serene has shifted into full-on caring nurse/get-outta-my-way, here’s something to eat, Jewish mother mode. A lifesaver.
The outpouring of Facebook messages, texts, emails and phone calls has been absolutely amazing. It’s so nice to have so many concerned, helpful friends.
Love to you all.