It had to happen. It was simply inevitable. Last Wednesday night, May 25, 2006, I went on the regular post-work Long Island 38-mile club ride, which just resumed in April. And at mile 30 I tried to make a left turn at around 20 mph in a small, quiet intersection. There was some sand and gravel, and I wiped out. Naturally, I quickly got up and moved the bike away from the road.
I remember a series of images of cyclists huddled around me, me protesting that I’ll ride back to the parking lot on my own, and a lady in an SUV handing me some baby wipes out of a yellow canister.
It had to happen. It was simply inevitable. Last Wednesday night, May 25, 2006, I went on the regular post-work Long Island 38-mile club ride, which just resumed in April. And at mile 30 I tried to make a left turn at around 20 mph in a small, quiet intersection. There was some sand and gravel, and I wiped out. Naturally, I quickly got up and moved the bike away from the road.
I remember a series of images of cyclists huddled around me, me protesting that I’ll ride back to the parking lot on my own, and a lady in an SUV handing me some baby wipes out of a yellow canister.
Next thing I know I’m staring at the top of an ambulance’s interior, lying on a board and wearing a neck brace. A male paramedic asked me to remember three items, “baseball,” “car,” and “house,” which I later recalled to him correctly but with some hesitation. The female paramedic was cutting my shorts to have a look at the road rash. I only made two requests: that it was her handling me and not the guy, and that she be firm, but gentle. The entire day — nay, the previous several months — seemed like a big blur to me. I had difficulty remembering the year, where I lived, or whether or not I was married. When I was asked my date of birth I gave it instinctively but wondered to myself if that really was my date of birth. As if another cognizant being was representing me, and me only watching events through thick, semi-translucent plexiglas. Is that what they call an out-of-body experience?
Two days ago I found out from Glen, one of the cyclists, that it took all of 15 minutes for the ambulance to get to the scene. Glen said that I was conscious throughout. I only recall a few seconds of that period. Stacey thinks it may have been a mild case of post-traumatic amnesia.
By the time they wheeled me into Room 1 of the ER at Huntington Hospital (5 minutes from where the spill took place), I already came to. I knew what happened. The admissions nurse came by and asked a few questions about allergies and personal history. A male nurse started sticking needles. He drew two blood samples for lab tests, inserted an IV catheter, and attached EKG leads to my chest and arms. Another nurse administered a tetanus shot. I only realized that I was hooked up to “the Matrix” some time later. The nurse also covered me with a blanket, either to keep me warm, or to prevent me from boasting my cycling thighs to hapless passersby, only slightly covered by shredded lycra shorts. The emergency doctor started to look at the wounds. Apparently, he didn’t think they were too serious because he quickly left. I mostly suffered a slight sting from the road rash and a pretty sore left shoulder.
The doctor ordered X-rays and a CT scan. He said that I’ll be wearing the neck brace until the tests clear. He was worried that I may have broken some bones. I was worried about Stacey. There she is, an hour away. She expects me home at around 8:30 on Wednesdays, since I usually finish the ride by 7:30 plus the additional commute to the Bronx. The phones in the rooms were not enabled for long-distance calls. So I finally made a big-enough fuss and the nurse wheeled me to the Nurses’ Station so I can place a long-distance call.
It took me about 5 minutes to convince Stacey that I’m in the ER and that I wasn’t actually kidding. She quickly recruited her sister to drive down with her to Long Island to come get me. The doctor already gave me some Percocets and thought it would be a bad idea to drive home alone.
Meanwhile, I was wheeled to Radiology for a cranial CT scan. The technician, hearing about my cycling mishap, introduced himself as an triathlete. He peered under the blanket, and shamelessly accused me of being a phony, since true cyclists shave their legs. We shared a laugh. Everyone was really nice.
They finally discharged me at 11pm. Stacey said I looked pretty bad with the neck brace and the scrapes. The doc took off the neck brace. He prescribed some Vicodin for the shoulder and told me to dress the wounds with fresh gauze every day. I left the hospital wearing torn shorts, my left arm in a sling, and a nice healthy road rash on my left side. I may have looked like I emerged from a war zone, but I felt like a million bucks (thank you, Percocet).
The big question always remained: where the hell is my bike? I found out from Glen that a woman that lived at the intersection was gracious enough to store the bike in a locked shed until I could pick it up. I called her up and arranged to pick it up when I’m back on the Island. In retrospect, it was good not having the bike. It prevented me from doing something stupid over the weekend like ride it (I had planned to do a nice hilly century in Hudson Valley). I also did a little post-mortem on my helmet. Despite the side impact, it had a nice set of cracks that indicate that it absorbed most of the impact and potentially saved me from something worse. A replacement helmet should now be en route from PerformanceBike.
So now, five days later, I’m recovering pretty nicely. The scrapes have scabbed and I may look worse than I feel. I might have to go for physical therapy for my left shoulder, but it’s improving rapidly. Let’s just say, the Vicodin more than made up for the pain.
I don’t know how long it will be before I ride a bike again (days, not weeks), but I can’t wait to get back on. This was the first time I was ever admitted into the ER, the first time I was driven to the hospital in ambulance. And it was… pretty cool. It was, I’m surprised to say, a positive experience.
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