"This. This is full on desperation.” Said my sister. “I could smell it from the parking lot."
"I don't know if I would go that far," I replied from the hospital bed. “Maybe it’s just a hint.”
It had been a rough night.
Normally when I was stressed out I would go for a run. Lately going for a bicycle ride had replaced running. It was easier on the back and knees. Biking allowed me to go further faster. Normally I could hammer out a 4-5 mile run in just under 45 minutes when I was in peak shape.
I had found a nice little trail just up the street from my house. On a basic day I could blast out a 5-7 mile ride in 30 minutes. It was a quick left-right, left-right, left and I was on my way.
The road was just busy enough to make you think twice about riding on it. I know most bikers and runners are supposed to be given some clearance but you wouldn't know it.
I have, what I'd like to think, is a rational fear of being hit by a car while riding. Between people talking on cell phones, radio rockstars who sing along to their favorite songs with their eyes closed, and various other distracted douchebags, cars become missiles on a mission of mayhem.
All I had to do was get passed this little section of road and I was on my way to a stress relieving ride. Unfortunately that night a curb, the sidewalk, and gravity had a different idea. I was thrown over the handle bars when I miscalculated the height of the curb. I was so concerned about being killed by a distracted douchebag that I got hurt trying to get out of the road on to the sidewalk.
I tumbled over and got up so quickly most of the cars that drove by possibly thought I was only shaken up. I don't remember getting back to the house and parking the bike in my kitchen. I do remember repeating to myself 'Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Whatever you do don't pass out.'
I apparently got my phone, keys, wallet, and made the decision to drive myself to the hospital rather than call an ambulance. There was something about paying $800-$1200 that I, even in the fog of pain, wanted no part of. Ironically, due to the blinding pain, I was one of the distracted douchebags in a missile on a mission of mayhem.
What I initially thought was a broken collarbone and cracked ribs turned out to be deep muscle contusions and shock. My helmet was cracked just above the right ear. Because of my age and the nature of the pain tests were run to make sure I wasn't in the process of having a heart attack.
"What would you call it then?" My sister asked, standing next to the hospital bed. "Going for a night bike ride with all those cars on a busy road. What would you call it?"
"Time." I said quietly. “I think it’s catching up with me.
"I've been running and biking to stay ahead of it - to keep my head clear. I have this feeling if I go further faster time will slow down. Let me live longer. But this,” I said motioning to the road rash on my arm, “this is a setback. Maybe something is telling me to stop running and face shit head on."
"I don't know if I would go that far," she said. "This could just be the pain talking."
"You're right. Maybe it’s the pain. Maybe it’s the desperation. It could just be a hint of both."
