RESTLESS NATIVE
mike thomas
Life Cycle Lessons
I WAS TOO OLD TO CRASH. TOO OLD TO BREAK BONES. I feel very hot and very heavy, with a very long way yet to go. I move crutches out first and plant them on the sidewalk. I then try pushing off with my left leg, the useless one. The pain zips up the femur and rings a bell in my hip. The house is 100 yards ahead. The crutches go out again and plant on the sidewalk. It’s like I’m coming home from the Civil War.
T
hat’s a dramatic rendition of me being a big baby. But,
honestly, I don’t deserve this. I gave up the wheelto-wheel, high-speed bike racing a few years ago. There would be no more careening through red lights to keep up with the lead pack. No more mixing it up with angry men in pickups and distracted teens on smart phones. No more avoiding riders who wobble, who don’t know the rules of the peloton, who get in over their heads and make stupid decisions. I was too old to crash. Too old to break bones. And so I opted to become a recreational rider. I would take a break at every Panera, put on a little paunch under the spandex, and stop to help strangers with flat tires. In my first stab at this new lifestyle, I was riding with a new group and missed the turn onto a bike trail. I tried to quickcorrect course and turned straight into the curb. The front tire exploded on impact. I went over the handlebars, did a half summersault, and nailed a perfect, half-tuck landing on my right shoulder blade. The shock waves set off an internal earthquake, crumbling my ribs and clavicle and deflating my lung. I lay on the sidewalk, trying to suck in oxygen, like a mullet on the bottom of a johnboat. The one thing I had going for me: Recreational cyclists will stop under such circumstances and call an ambulance. Racers will assume you are conscious and have a cell phone. For the next three months, every movement set off a sword fight inside my chest. It took two years before I’d get back on my bike. But this time it was on bike trails, with friends, taking it slow and easy. No surprises; no missed turns. Probability of broken bones: too small to quantify. That is what I was doing three weeks ago on the Cross Seminole Trail. We got to an overpass and I stood up on the pedals and
94
ORLANDO LIFE
12OL_Oct13_Restless Native.indd 94
propelled myself to the top with a few hard cranks. And then it was downhill, leading into a curve, slick from an early morning rain. The wheels started sliding out from under me. Racing bikes are minimalist constructions of carbon fiber and feather-light wheels. They have no substance, no forward momentum, no traction control. They are as skittish as rodeo horses. Once a racing bike loses its grip on the road, there is scant chance of re-engaging. I was like Wile E. Coyote running over the side of the cliff, oblivious at first, then looking down, gulping, falling. There are two ways to land under such circumstances. One, you come in at an angle and slide, losing skin layers. That hurts. Two, you come down in a splat. That usually requires an ambulance. This was my second splat landing in three years. I came down so fast that I didn’t even have time to put out my arm and break my clavicle again. I hit violently on my left hip and bounced onto my right side. The left leg sat limply on top of the right. I ordered it to move. The ankle complied. The knee was good for a few degrees. But that was it. I quickly diagnosed a hip/femur fracture, with surgery required. ■■■ There is now one piece of rebar in my femur and another going into my hip. It is an internal cast, put in place through very tiny incisions, like building a ship in a bottle. I never broke any bones in the first half of my life, and have broken a dozen in the second half. If they ever found my skeleton back in a swamp and tried to determine what my occupation had been, the first guess would be “rodeo clown.” I will get over this because that is what I do. I train for things. I used to train for marathons. Now I train to walk. When I do walk, I can guarantee you this: I will not ride. Not ever again. ■ Native Floridian and longtime Orlando columnist Mike Thomas is a freelance writer. You can reach him at miket@orlando-life.com. OCTOBER 2013
9/16/13 3:34:06 PM