sometimes you eat the bear ...
I have, from time to time, watched movies of mountain bikers doing amazing things, taking leaps and jumps and executing a slow-motion form of aerial ballet with their bicycle as their dancing partner. These movies also tend to include montage scenes of a mountain biker on a full-speed descent, zipping through narrow, gnarly spaces with the grace and ease of a championship skier carving their way down a slope. It's exciting in the way chase scenes are exciting, all velocity and spontaneous choreography, but muted in the quiet assurance that nobody dies in these movies and that all of the stars show up in the credits at the end, with all of their teeth.
On Saturday, I had elected to go out and ride in the Deerfield Dirt Road Randonee, a 118 mile bike ride through the wilds of Western Mass, on gravel roads and unpaved paths that are 100 years older than the founding of the Republic. It is a wild, beautiful and beastly ride. There was more than one moment, where I would be descending a hill at 30+ mph, hands on my brake hoods, leaning far back off my saddle, using my legs as suspension, weaving and leaning into switchback turns, that my mind would reach these periods of focused clarity -- a timeless state of instinct and action. A detached part of my self would think about those mountain bikers and appreciate how surviving on this terrain required a combination of skill and luck.
My luck ran out around mile 70.
I was descending from another forested hillside, putting in maybe 22, 25 mph, when my front wheel caught itself in a sandy rut which stopped my bike and sent me flying. In that one moment of clarity and action I, at least, had the presence of mind to roll my body to the left, so that if anything broke, it wouldn't be my dominant hand.
The crash itself happened quickly, too quickly for me to worry about it or tense up. I had hit the ground on a roll and wound up on my back, but didn't feel any pain, at least not immediately.
"Get up," I thought to myself,"get off the road."
I had rolled on to my right side, but my left knee protested when I put weight on it. I looked down, saw blood, then looked up again, seeking a safe spot to collect myself. I pulled my bike to the side of the road, collected the contents of pockets that had scattered in the slide and then hobbled to a guard rail; sat down and ran diagnostics.
I maintained consciousness, so that meant that I didn't have a concussion. My jaw felt like it had been punched, but I could still move it. Pain and rawness in my mouth. I spat out gravel and realized that it looked like pieces of tooth. My left arm was a mess, covered in blood and missing patches of skin. Still, I could move my shoulder, elbow, wrist and fingers. So nothing felt broken, so maybe it was ok. My left knee had a surface that looked like ground meat, and it was moving slowly. I realized then that my ride was over and now I had to think about getting help.
Like many brevets, the D2R2 has the barest minimum of support. There are stocked controls and vehicles that run the route, ferrying supplies from one control to the next, but the discipline bred into randonneurs is that you are ultimately responsible for getting yourself out of whatever jam you get into, and you cannot depend on the ride organizers to rescue you. If you don't think you can finish, don't start.
Still, I thought that I might call the organizers and let them know. There was a control point about 5 miles back and I figured that I could probably make my way back there and hitch a ride somehow. I just needed to ask them to stay open. I had worn a hydration backpack with a small compartment for my cell phone, tools and spare food, and as I unslung that, I saw that it had been perforated by gravel and pebbles on the path. The zipper had stuck due to the damage, and my injured left hand had no strength.
The back of my mind had thought about how long it had been since I had seen a car. A selling point of the D2R2 is that so much of the route is on secluded farm roads and horse paths that you could go for hours without hearing the sound of an engine. Oh, how quickly those blessing turn into curses. I struggled with the zipper a while longer, scanning the road for traffic. The first person that I saw was another cyclist, coming in the opposite direction.
"Hey, are you o-- whoa, you need some help?"
"I guess it looks bad, huh? But, yeah, I had a crash ... do you have a cell phone?"
"No, man, I don't, but are you on the D2R2?"
"Yeah, trying to get in touch with them. There's a checkpoint about 5 miles back, wanted to let them know I was going to go back for help."
"Man, you're not going anywhere. Where did you say the checkpoint was?"
It was as I was explaining the details to him that a small, sport SUV rolled up with a kayak on the sun roof. The cyclist waved the driver down and explained the circumstances to her. I thought that she looked like Catherine Keener.
Catherine Keener had agreed to drive me back to the checkpoint, but apologized about how her car was full of kayaking stuff, as she was on her way to rendezvous with her husband and kids for an afternoon on a nearby pond, and she didn't have space for my bike. The cyclist instead, volunteered to hide my bike from the road, camouflaging it in the green and reasoning that I could come back for it after I got some help.
I had apologized to her about delaying her afternoon plans, but she waved it off with the simple explanation of "I have kids. I only hope that somebody does something nice for them if they ever get into trouble."
The checkpoint was closed by the time we had arrived. The tent and supplies were still there but nobody was around. I had walked up to see if perhaps the staff were using a port-a-potty or swimming in the nearby river, because obviously nobody would just abandon the chcekpoint without packing up their stuff, but the place was obviously deserted. By this time, I had managed to open my bag, but had no cell receptoin.
"I think," Catherine Keener suggested, "I should take you to a hospital. Would that be ok?"
"No, I don't want to put you out. This has been a lot already."
Obviously I was still in shock and not thinking clearly.
Fortunately, a few seconds later, a minivan showed up with one of the checkpoint volunteers, explaining that after closing down the food station, she had driven back along the route to search for a lost GPS unit. It was also around that time that the Samaritan cyclist showed up. Suddenly there were all of these people fussing and fretting over me and I felt rather guilty about it.
Eventually, we agreed on the original plan. The volunteer, L, agreed to drive me back along the route, pick up my bike and take me to the emergency ward of Franklin Medical Center. Nonetheless, Catherine Keener still told me that if I needed any help or a place to stay, I should give her a call. One can meet all kinds of people in their life, and still be surprised by the spontaneous kindness inherent within the human heart.
L was also a mom, with kids my age, and she was also a chatterbox which was exactly what I needed to distract my mind and keep it from running into worry. We had soon retrieved my bike and tried to navigate out of the forest, though even with GPS, we still wound up getting lost and making wrong turns. Eventually, however, we made it back to civilization and to working cell coverage. L called the ride organizers to inform them of my accident and that she was taking me to Franklin Medical. I called silentq to tell her that I had crash and that I was being taken to a hospital, and I'd call her again once I got a diagnosis.
I realized then, how few weeks remained before we were supposed to go to Tanzania, to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, and how I could not afford to break anything this close to the trip. I suddenly felt reckless and foolish, and dreaded what the hospital would tell me.
The emergency ward was quiet and I was seen rather quickly, though by this time it was 6 o'clock, and 3 hours had passed since my accident. My knees were stiffening up and my left hand had swollen up to the size of a jelly doughnut. My doctor was a jovial Indian fellow, with a natural Western accent and a casual manner that at least got me to hope that I would be ok. After all, if things looked bad, then he'd be more concerned. Still, after looking at my gouged knee and swollen hand, he had a nurse take x-rays as a precaution.
Fortunately, the x-rays showed no problems. I had chipped two front teeth, lost skin on my upper and lower lips, my left shoulder, bicep, forearm and knuckles, as well as my left knee. right shin and part of my right forearm. My cycling gloves were thrashed and a I needed a new bike jersey. The teeth needed to be capped, but aside from that I should be recovering within a week, and certainly within time for Kilimanjaro.
The phone rang while I was waiting for the doctor to return with a splint, and an operator said to me, "there's a person who claims to be your girlfriend calling in. Would you like to take the call?"
Hooray for medical privacy. I accepted and told silentq that I was going to be ok, and for the first time, I felt like that statement was genuine. I told her that I'd see her soon, and I would try to drive home once I got out of the hospital and had some dinner.
The doctor cleaned off the worst of my road scars and taped up my hand and wrist in a splint to keep them stable and help things heal. Another nurse came by to disinfect and wrap the exposed patches of skin, giving me instructions on how to change the dressing on my knee and loading me up with gauze pads, bandages and antibiotic ointment. With that, I was released and free to go.
Over an hour had passed since I was admitted, but L was still there, reading some ancient magazine. I asked her if she had enough distraction and she waved it off saying that it wasn't a problem, then offered me some cheese to snack on; explaining that she was going to offer an apple but thought better of it given my teeth and all.
L drove me back to the ride start, so that I could put my bike back on my car and sort out my affairs. Another rider helped me load my bike onto the roof rack and from there I gingerly walked over to the start area, to cash in a weathered meal ticket for dinner. On the way there, I saw my old fleche teammate, Bruce, and Elton from Harris Cyclery. They both looked at me like I was some kind of Lazarus.
I had actually seen Bruce earlier in the day. He was riding slow, not having anticipated how tough it was to climb up several miles of dirt and gravel, and also bonking from fatigue as he had left all of his electrolytes in his car the start. I had loaned him some of the electrolytes from my supplies, before he left me behind somewhere around mile 50. He said that he was glad to see me now. Word had gotten out at the finish about how I had a crash and had to be taken to the hospital, and so everyone that I knew from the Boston brevet scene had worried about me.
"Yeah, well, enough about me," I said with some embarassment, "how'd you do? You finish ok?"
"It wasn't pretty, but I finished. Thanks again for the electrolytes, by the way, it made all the difference."
"Hell, Bruce, least I could do after you watched out for me in Connecticut."
"yeah, I suppose. Thanks again, though."
"No problem, man. No problem."
So it was as I walked around the finish area. Jake and Emily, Dave and Emily, Ray, David and the Broadway Bicycle crew -- folks were happy to see me walking about, happy to share stories of the road -- a community looking out for each other and being there when we needed to be. Before I left, to hobble home to my sweetie and a long hot bath, I stopped by the organizer tent to see Don Podolski, the Berkshire RBA and D2R2 co-organizer.
"Do you need my brevet card, Don?"
"No, Cris, you're all set. Do you ... mmm ... need my address or contact info? File an accident report?"
"What? and get the cops involved? What for? All things considered, I had fun today. Thanks for putting this together."
"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."
"Certainly. Some of those fast gravel descents ... yeah, they're scary and all, but they wouldn't be half as fun if crashing wasn't a possibility. Comes with the territory. Least we can hope for is that it's something we can walk away from."
"Yup, that's true. Take care of yourself, Cris."
"You too, Don. See you next year."
On Saturday, I had elected to go out and ride in the Deerfield Dirt Road Randonee, a 118 mile bike ride through the wilds of Western Mass, on gravel roads and unpaved paths that are 100 years older than the founding of the Republic. It is a wild, beautiful and beastly ride. There was more than one moment, where I would be descending a hill at 30+ mph, hands on my brake hoods, leaning far back off my saddle, using my legs as suspension, weaving and leaning into switchback turns, that my mind would reach these periods of focused clarity -- a timeless state of instinct and action. A detached part of my self would think about those mountain bikers and appreciate how surviving on this terrain required a combination of skill and luck.
My luck ran out around mile 70.
I was descending from another forested hillside, putting in maybe 22, 25 mph, when my front wheel caught itself in a sandy rut which stopped my bike and sent me flying. In that one moment of clarity and action I, at least, had the presence of mind to roll my body to the left, so that if anything broke, it wouldn't be my dominant hand.
The crash itself happened quickly, too quickly for me to worry about it or tense up. I had hit the ground on a roll and wound up on my back, but didn't feel any pain, at least not immediately.
"Get up," I thought to myself,"get off the road."
I had rolled on to my right side, but my left knee protested when I put weight on it. I looked down, saw blood, then looked up again, seeking a safe spot to collect myself. I pulled my bike to the side of the road, collected the contents of pockets that had scattered in the slide and then hobbled to a guard rail; sat down and ran diagnostics.
I maintained consciousness, so that meant that I didn't have a concussion. My jaw felt like it had been punched, but I could still move it. Pain and rawness in my mouth. I spat out gravel and realized that it looked like pieces of tooth. My left arm was a mess, covered in blood and missing patches of skin. Still, I could move my shoulder, elbow, wrist and fingers. So nothing felt broken, so maybe it was ok. My left knee had a surface that looked like ground meat, and it was moving slowly. I realized then that my ride was over and now I had to think about getting help.
Like many brevets, the D2R2 has the barest minimum of support. There are stocked controls and vehicles that run the route, ferrying supplies from one control to the next, but the discipline bred into randonneurs is that you are ultimately responsible for getting yourself out of whatever jam you get into, and you cannot depend on the ride organizers to rescue you. If you don't think you can finish, don't start.
Still, I thought that I might call the organizers and let them know. There was a control point about 5 miles back and I figured that I could probably make my way back there and hitch a ride somehow. I just needed to ask them to stay open. I had worn a hydration backpack with a small compartment for my cell phone, tools and spare food, and as I unslung that, I saw that it had been perforated by gravel and pebbles on the path. The zipper had stuck due to the damage, and my injured left hand had no strength.
The back of my mind had thought about how long it had been since I had seen a car. A selling point of the D2R2 is that so much of the route is on secluded farm roads and horse paths that you could go for hours without hearing the sound of an engine. Oh, how quickly those blessing turn into curses. I struggled with the zipper a while longer, scanning the road for traffic. The first person that I saw was another cyclist, coming in the opposite direction.
"Hey, are you o-- whoa, you need some help?"
"I guess it looks bad, huh? But, yeah, I had a crash ... do you have a cell phone?"
"No, man, I don't, but are you on the D2R2?"
"Yeah, trying to get in touch with them. There's a checkpoint about 5 miles back, wanted to let them know I was going to go back for help."
"Man, you're not going anywhere. Where did you say the checkpoint was?"
It was as I was explaining the details to him that a small, sport SUV rolled up with a kayak on the sun roof. The cyclist waved the driver down and explained the circumstances to her. I thought that she looked like Catherine Keener.
Catherine Keener had agreed to drive me back to the checkpoint, but apologized about how her car was full of kayaking stuff, as she was on her way to rendezvous with her husband and kids for an afternoon on a nearby pond, and she didn't have space for my bike. The cyclist instead, volunteered to hide my bike from the road, camouflaging it in the green and reasoning that I could come back for it after I got some help.
I had apologized to her about delaying her afternoon plans, but she waved it off with the simple explanation of "I have kids. I only hope that somebody does something nice for them if they ever get into trouble."
The checkpoint was closed by the time we had arrived. The tent and supplies were still there but nobody was around. I had walked up to see if perhaps the staff were using a port-a-potty or swimming in the nearby river, because obviously nobody would just abandon the chcekpoint without packing up their stuff, but the place was obviously deserted. By this time, I had managed to open my bag, but had no cell receptoin.
"I think," Catherine Keener suggested, "I should take you to a hospital. Would that be ok?"
"No, I don't want to put you out. This has been a lot already."
Obviously I was still in shock and not thinking clearly.
Fortunately, a few seconds later, a minivan showed up with one of the checkpoint volunteers, explaining that after closing down the food station, she had driven back along the route to search for a lost GPS unit. It was also around that time that the Samaritan cyclist showed up. Suddenly there were all of these people fussing and fretting over me and I felt rather guilty about it.
Eventually, we agreed on the original plan. The volunteer, L, agreed to drive me back along the route, pick up my bike and take me to the emergency ward of Franklin Medical Center. Nonetheless, Catherine Keener still told me that if I needed any help or a place to stay, I should give her a call. One can meet all kinds of people in their life, and still be surprised by the spontaneous kindness inherent within the human heart.
L was also a mom, with kids my age, and she was also a chatterbox which was exactly what I needed to distract my mind and keep it from running into worry. We had soon retrieved my bike and tried to navigate out of the forest, though even with GPS, we still wound up getting lost and making wrong turns. Eventually, however, we made it back to civilization and to working cell coverage. L called the ride organizers to inform them of my accident and that she was taking me to Franklin Medical. I called silentq to tell her that I had crash and that I was being taken to a hospital, and I'd call her again once I got a diagnosis.
I realized then, how few weeks remained before we were supposed to go to Tanzania, to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, and how I could not afford to break anything this close to the trip. I suddenly felt reckless and foolish, and dreaded what the hospital would tell me.
The emergency ward was quiet and I was seen rather quickly, though by this time it was 6 o'clock, and 3 hours had passed since my accident. My knees were stiffening up and my left hand had swollen up to the size of a jelly doughnut. My doctor was a jovial Indian fellow, with a natural Western accent and a casual manner that at least got me to hope that I would be ok. After all, if things looked bad, then he'd be more concerned. Still, after looking at my gouged knee and swollen hand, he had a nurse take x-rays as a precaution.
Fortunately, the x-rays showed no problems. I had chipped two front teeth, lost skin on my upper and lower lips, my left shoulder, bicep, forearm and knuckles, as well as my left knee. right shin and part of my right forearm. My cycling gloves were thrashed and a I needed a new bike jersey. The teeth needed to be capped, but aside from that I should be recovering within a week, and certainly within time for Kilimanjaro.
The phone rang while I was waiting for the doctor to return with a splint, and an operator said to me, "there's a person who claims to be your girlfriend calling in. Would you like to take the call?"
Hooray for medical privacy. I accepted and told silentq that I was going to be ok, and for the first time, I felt like that statement was genuine. I told her that I'd see her soon, and I would try to drive home once I got out of the hospital and had some dinner.
The doctor cleaned off the worst of my road scars and taped up my hand and wrist in a splint to keep them stable and help things heal. Another nurse came by to disinfect and wrap the exposed patches of skin, giving me instructions on how to change the dressing on my knee and loading me up with gauze pads, bandages and antibiotic ointment. With that, I was released and free to go.
Over an hour had passed since I was admitted, but L was still there, reading some ancient magazine. I asked her if she had enough distraction and she waved it off saying that it wasn't a problem, then offered me some cheese to snack on; explaining that she was going to offer an apple but thought better of it given my teeth and all.
L drove me back to the ride start, so that I could put my bike back on my car and sort out my affairs. Another rider helped me load my bike onto the roof rack and from there I gingerly walked over to the start area, to cash in a weathered meal ticket for dinner. On the way there, I saw my old fleche teammate, Bruce, and Elton from Harris Cyclery. They both looked at me like I was some kind of Lazarus.
I had actually seen Bruce earlier in the day. He was riding slow, not having anticipated how tough it was to climb up several miles of dirt and gravel, and also bonking from fatigue as he had left all of his electrolytes in his car the start. I had loaned him some of the electrolytes from my supplies, before he left me behind somewhere around mile 50. He said that he was glad to see me now. Word had gotten out at the finish about how I had a crash and had to be taken to the hospital, and so everyone that I knew from the Boston brevet scene had worried about me.
"Yeah, well, enough about me," I said with some embarassment, "how'd you do? You finish ok?"
"It wasn't pretty, but I finished. Thanks again for the electrolytes, by the way, it made all the difference."
"Hell, Bruce, least I could do after you watched out for me in Connecticut."
"yeah, I suppose. Thanks again, though."
"No problem, man. No problem."
So it was as I walked around the finish area. Jake and Emily, Dave and Emily, Ray, David and the Broadway Bicycle crew -- folks were happy to see me walking about, happy to share stories of the road -- a community looking out for each other and being there when we needed to be. Before I left, to hobble home to my sweetie and a long hot bath, I stopped by the organizer tent to see Don Podolski, the Berkshire RBA and D2R2 co-organizer.
"Do you need my brevet card, Don?"
"No, Cris, you're all set. Do you ... mmm ... need my address or contact info? File an accident report?"
"What? and get the cops involved? What for? All things considered, I had fun today. Thanks for putting this together."
"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."
"Certainly. Some of those fast gravel descents ... yeah, they're scary and all, but they wouldn't be half as fun if crashing wasn't a possibility. Comes with the territory. Least we can hope for is that it's something we can walk away from."
"Yup, that's true. Take care of yourself, Cris."
"You too, Don. See you next year."