“What’s strange is taking a leak and getting air in the hose—like when you first turn on the sprinkler. It’s probably the coolest part of getting catheterized—of course everything else about it sucks ass.” Day 7
Today it’s been 13 years since I went over the bars on my Mrazek and broke my back. I still consider that day to be both the luckiest and unluckiest day of my life. I was with friends at Cline Butte, outside of Bend, doing shuttle runs and testing rims for Shimano. It was hot and late, and I was tired and thirsty. I just wanted to go home, but I relented and agreed to do one more run. As luck would have it, I should have drove shuttle.
Midway through the run, just before a low spot in the trail, something hit my pedal or went into my fork crown, or maybe Mr Hyde pulled my front brake. The resulting catapult over the bars cleared the low spot and lawn darted me squarely into the upslope on the other side. I remember the ground coming at me. I remember bouncing off the top of my head. I remember really loud sounds and intense pain in my head and running around trying to get away from it. My friends made me lie down. The noises in my head subsided as a pain in my back came into focus. “Am I lying on a rock or a pine-cone or something?” I remember asking. They checked. “Nope” I spit out the some dirt and rocks from my mouth as I waited for the EMTs.
I’d broken two vertebrae. One in half, the other into quarters. The pieces were separated as if someone had it them with a hammer. One of the fractures was a millimeter from my spinal cord. I’d landed on my head as if diving into my front yard from my roof. There was a bruise on my collarbone from my jaw. The rocks I had spit out were not rocks. They were teeth. I’d broken nine of them. The doctor’s analogy of my back breaking was that of “pushing on a straw”. You didn’t know where it would break, but if you pushed, it would break. I had been wearing a motorcycle chest protector and a hydration pack, but for this kind of accident, I’d have been better off riding naked, with a little less intertia.
I spent a couple days in the Psych ward at the hospital waiting for a time slot with the surgeon. They say I was moaning too loud for the other floors. I remember waking up in a dark room a few times. I was panting like a dog. Every breath made the bits of bone in my spine click against each other. I’m glad I can’t remember much of that.
Upon waking after surgery, I felt instantly better. Tubes were coming out of everywhere, and I had dozens of staples sealing my back and my hip where they mined for bone to make the glue that (along with some rods and hooks) now held my spine together. But I could breath again. I spent 9 days at St. Chuck’s learning to breath, learning to pee, learning to eat lying down, and eventually learning to walk on shaky legs. I began writing a journal in a Winnie the Pooh notebook. A notebook I found again last week. I read it again, in light of my anniversary.
“You would think that hospitals would cater to their customers more. They may have nice sculptures in the lobby or pretty views, but their ceilings all look the same: perforated white pressed panels with the occasional sprinkler and the occasional stain. What causes those stains anyway?” Day 8
Upon release, I moved back in with my parents for a month so that they could help me bathe, eat, and use the restroom. For two months, I’d be relegated to wearing a full body clamshell brace with a neck-stabilizing tower. I couldn’t drive. I’d struggle to stop using pain killers.
“Been home a week and lovin’ it. Roommate feels sick and I get to take care of him. It feels good to be self sufficient, even if I do have to be careful lifting milk jugs. I’m off of all the meds and have been going to Cascade Cycling Classic stages to watch and socialize. I actually got to watch the Tour this year for once in my life. It was great to watch, bit I hope I don’t see the whole thing again until Lance and I are both retired.” Day 40
A month before I shattered my back, my insurance premiums went up 14 dollars. As a “pizza delivery professional”, I considered cancelling the policy that I’d begun the year prior due to what I considered wonton profiteering. In the next 12 months, my insurance paid out $105,000 in medical expenses.
My doctor gave me a high probability of living a normal life once healed. And he said my days of bike racing were over. With this, he offered an ornately framed magazine article about a competitive diver who broke her back and returned to a normal life, free of diving. I suppose it was intended to be inspirational.
A year later, I was racing, albeit the worst I ever had, at the Big Bear NORBA National. I remember pulling into the feed zone and telling my girlfriend that I was quitting—done. She ruthlessly shamed me into continuing. I struggled to finish 98th that day.
I struggled a lot for a long time. It took a couple of years to get back to where I had left off. It’s not that I had a “never say die” attitude. I just made little gains, moved forward, continued the inching my way up that I’d begun years ago as a kid racing a BMX at mountain bike races. Eventually I was riding pretty well. I signed my first contract with Giant Bicycles 30 months after the accident. I’ve been there ever since. Thirteen years after my crash I have a back that feels crappy if I take care of it and crappier if I don’t—about right for anyone who’s been racing bikes since 1984. For that, I’m grateful.
Since then, I’ve had two friends break backs while riding bikes. One friend’s wasn’t nearly as bad as mine. The indefatigable Tara Llanes’ was much worse. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s a risk we all take to some degree. It’s a risk I think of when I have a close call. Or when I see others taking chances. Most of the time I don’t think about it. Because I know that riding bikes is worth some risk. And much like the lottery, you’re guaranteed not to win if you don’t play.
I’ve known a few people who have lost something to a bike, but I know legions who have gained so much more. People like me who have built their lives around bicycles and the people that live to ride them. On this 13th day of June, exactly 13 years after my number came up, I’m still certain that the odds of a television killing me are far greater than those of a bicycle. And those are odds I can roll with.
Keep the rubber side down,