Life, as we all know, can turn on a dime. In our case, it was a bee – specifically, the bee that flew up my husband’s t-shirt on the bicycle path in Cleveland Park, setting into motion the series of unfortunate events that landed our family in the emergency room two weeks ago, staring at x-rays and wishing we could rewind that decision to “do a few laps before supper.”
The x-rays showcased a variety of broken bones. His, to be exact: collar bone, shoulder blade and two ribs. All of which move in tandem with every breath – a miracle of synchronization one enjoys without thought until breathing excites pain receptors better left undisturbed.
Three lessons immediately learned: Cleveland Park is full of Good Samaritans. “Tuck and roll” works far better on grass than pavement. And there are few sights more galvanizing than that of your husband in a fetal position on the ground, surrounded by a small village of onlookers, with an ambulance rolling to a stop on the hill above him.
It was one of the Good Samaritans who held his cell phone to his ear so Scott could call me. Another who assured me he had “never lost consciousness” after our son and I scrambled down the hill to join the crowd. But it took another cyclist to know what he really needed: reassurance that this accident was no reflection on his cycling skills.
“I kept telling him it could have happened to anybody,” she said as the EMTs rolled his stretcher away. “A freak accident. Really.”
Which is what Scott kept returning to as he sat “in a wheelchair, in a sling, in the ER, scowling at humanity,” as one son tweeted into wireless-land as we waited to be seen.
First there was the bee. Then the two pedestrians who materialized in front of him when he looked up from swatting said bee. Then the swerve to avoid said pedestrians. The attempted return to the paved path. The resulting end-over the handlebars when the tire caught on the lip of the asphalt.
“I did not fall off the bike,” he said. “I was hurled due to circumstances beyond my control.”
“You could say you were fending off a mountain lion,” said his son, before tweeting, “He’s getting annoyed at me because I’m making him want to laugh and laughing makes him hurt. Whoops.”
The word “fall” was completely forbidden by the time our other son’s Facebook posts had our cellphones ringing. And the ban held through the following week of re-telling to friends, family, coworkers, orthopedists, anesthesiologists and surgery room nurses – all of whom firmly agreed his road cycling record remains intact and unmarred.
Cradling his elbow at the table the other day, he made a list of all the bicycles he can ride with ease: tandems, unicycles, road, city and mountain bikes. He rides 2,500 miles a year. He has conquered the Assault on Mount Mitchell three times. “I cannot believe what I managed to do on a simple turn around Cleveland Park.”
Actually, he’s gotten off pretty lightly. I did a little research (big surprise). According to numerous studies, an experienced cyclist can expect a minor injury every three years and a more serious one every 15. One in every 20 are injured annually. Scott hasn’t had more than a scrape in 30 years. The most common accidental break? The collar bone. The most common cause of all crashes? Falls.
Ah, make that catapults. While fending off pedestrians – er, mountain lions – and saying grateful prayers for Good Samaritans, prompt EMTs and comedic sons who teach us it’s better to laugh through the pain.
