Wear a Helmet!

How many bones were broken?

I needed to assess my physical status. I rolled onto my back. Okay, I’m alive, I’m functioning. The bad hip was pain free. It was the other hip that scraped the concrete and it was all right, too.

From my back, I was able to push the touring bike off of me. Ow! My left hand was pretty banged up. Clear of the bike, I lay still for a moment to let my brain process what had just happened. My head took the brunt of the fall, smashing against an eight-inch curb in the center of the bike lake traffic circle. My bell was rung a little. I straight up into the sky and the bright sun looked back from beyond the blue. I was able to focus on closer objects, too. The helmet was not an expensive one, but it may have saved my writing career. It saved my life. It saved my brain from being splattered across this public space, where other riders and runners and children would wince and recoil. Dogs, straining to taste the blood and fresh meat, would be yanked away by their walkers.

I raised both arms toward the sun, moving them in a circular pattern as though I was conducting the orchestra that created the ringing in my ears. They worked. The left wrist could be problematic. It hurt, but only when I tried to move it. I bent my knees and raised my legs. They worked fine. Fresh blood splotched from my skinned left knee. The breeze burned the newly exposed skin on my right forearm.

I rolled over on my belly in order to push my body up off the ground. The left hand refused to cooperate, sending notices of pain through the rest of my body. Awkwardly, I pushed up with my right hand. Standing upright, I felt a surge go through my head. It was not a light-headed response, or pain, but just life energy letting me know I was okay.

The new bright blue cycling glove on my left hand had grass stains and a small tear. I picked a few tiny stones from the tear. They didn’t come from the roadway, but from the inside of the median. The tips of my fingers protruded from the gloves, like sausages on the summer grill about to burst. The ring finger hurt the most. The middle finger hurt nearly as bad. I chuckled. Not the middle finger. I need that for driving.

I picked up the bike, preparing to move off the bike path. The concrete trail was meticulously groomed. The ride was pleasant up to that point. I’ve been trying to ride more frequently to loosen up an arthritic hip, and this ride was doing just that. I wasn’t riding fast but had developed a nice cadence on the relatively flat track.

Another rider approached and stopped. He asked if I was okay and chatted with me briefly. I told him that I was riding about 10 mph, and on the slight, flat curve. The bike just slid out from under me.

“You’ve got a flat front tire,” he said, pointing to it. “That will do it.”

The front and rear tires were almost new, on just their third ride. It was unseemly that I could have a blowout so soon. But I did.

“If you do any amount of riding, this probably won’t be the last time you fall,” the gentleman said. “I’ve taken quite a few and I know I’ll take some more.”

Then I asked the cyclist if he wanted to buy a used Raleigh 21-speed. He laughed, and said, no, that I was still going to need it. He made sure I was okay to get back to the parking lot before continuing his ride.

I could have pumped up the self-sealing tire and tried to ride back, but I chose to walk. It was a walk that allowed for contemplation. I thought of the people and things that were important to me and gave thanks. The sun beat down on me; it felt good. When I arrived at my Jeep in the parking lot, I took off the helmet. I was sure that the shell was cracked based on the violence of the hit.

Barely a scratch on it. I feel very fortunate, and am sharing this story because if you ride a bike, your helmet could save your life. Wear the helmet. To answer the opening question: one, possibly two broken fingers were the only injuries still posing problems on the sixth day after the fall.