"A lesson lived is a lesson learned"

I was unaware I was doing it when she mentioned it, but the personal trainer pointed out that the big toe of my right foot continued to precede my hips in lifting from the ground during the concentric phase of my squats. A poor motor pattern I had adopted in order to press solely from my heels when initiating the hip drive. But this fault gave me something more manageable to improve upon. With each additional repetition of the remaining sets, I overcompensated by consciously digging the big toe into the floor as the bar glid up and down within the confine of the Smith machine.

In an effort to unlearn this “trick” I made a game to pay attention to my toe the duration of the ride home. Each stroke, pressing the toe down as I imagined scraping dog crap from the cleat of my cycling shoe and following through my trying to make circles with the rotating arcs of my ankle. After the route straightened out I repositioned to the drop bars and mimicked the posture of a time trialists. Grinding away at the cranks and spinning the wheels with my head down engrossed in the task of perfecting my stroke. I’m trying to figure out what this feel is and before I can finish the thought I realize I am floating askew. I land violently on my left shoulder and watch as my iPod serpentines away from me on the blacktop then feel the earbuds rip from my ears.

I don’t know how long I laid there on Harbor Boulevard curled in the fetal position with my bike beside me but as the cabbie helped me to my feet I attempt to save face and quelch the tears forming in the pits of my eyes. Assuming a stoic bravado of “I’m okay” through every pained shallow breath as reality develops in my mind like a Polaroid. Assessing myself and possessions as I attempt to brush him aside through his bids to thank god and be thankful for everyday and be grateful to those I love. I ignore the scope of my troubles and deny his offers for a bottle of water and a ride home. I take the bottle of water to pacify him, looking at my bike the chain has slipped off the crank in my tumult. An easy fix, but the foolish pride begins to wane when I realize the top tube is cracked. I hobble to the Yolobus bus stop and trying to decode the time table. Sitting hurts, so I stand in anguish as people pass me by I feel defenseless and hope no one has the malice to take advantage of me. Eventually a bus arrives, but the bike racks are full and I am unable to board.

I wait the next hour for another 42B and try to occupy my time with my phone. I scroll through my contacts looking for someone I could call for help. Housemate? No, she’s at work. Cousin? No, how would I explain it to her. Classmates? Why bother. I decide to take the cabbie’s advice and call my mother but there’s no answer. I leave a voicemail informing her of the accident. I put gym shorts on over my bike shorts and resume waiting. Facebook offers little entertainment, I stare the frame of the bike and my reflection in the lining on the bus stop When the next bus arrives I attempt to separate the spring arms which hold the bikes in the rack, but I cannot muster the strength and uncoordinatedly set the wheels in the channels and try pushing the bike into security. The driver momentarily abandons his post to assist me, feeling shamed I scurry aboard and find the nearest seat. An elderly woman observes the ripped shirt, road rash and cracked helmet before inquiring “Bike accident?”. To which I sheepishly reply with a nod which elicits a sympathetic wince. I ride back to Davis in increasing pain, each lumbering turn, jarring start and jerky stop do nothing to ease my pain. I deboard near Mace and Chiles and drag the bike alongside me during the two and a half mile walk back to the room I rent in a house on Lafayette. The noises of the dangling chain scraping against the street pair with the irregular rhythm of the incomplete revolution of the cranks and the shuffling of my cleats on the sidewalk to distract from the festering lack of Samaritans.

It’s approximately noon by the time I pass through the front doors of my residence. I open the fridge looking for something convenient, but there’s nothing waiting for me so I pilfer Estelle’s tub of plain yogurt. 32 ounces of dairy working their way through my digestive tract I decide I should take a shower before seeking medical counsel. I wrestle with my torn shirt for a few minutes, but I am unable to free myself from it due to my new found inability to raise my left arm. As the steam obscures the bathroom mirror, I contemplate ripping the shirt off like Hulk Hogan with the nice starter hole on the left sleeve before deciding if I can’t take a shirt off I likely can’t put one on either. I turn the water off, grab my keys, lock up and head to my car. I depress the clutch and turn the key in the ignition, begin negotiating with the seat belt when it dawns on me that I can’t turn the steering wheel. I turn the car off and surmise the Unitrans L line bus is my only option now so I walk to the western end of Layola and wait for the next bus.Still disheveled, I show my student ID and board the bus. When we arrive at the Silo Terminal, I walk northwest to the Student Health Center. When I arrive, I find my way to urgent care where I am instructed to type my name and reason for visit onto a touch screen. The wait staff implore me to “please have a sea and wait to be seen” unable to sit I pace across the lobby like the wounded animal I am.

Once I am in the observing room, the nurse helps me disrobe and leaves me to manage my gown. Once she steps out of the room, I take stock of the totality of my wounds in the mirror and snap a few selfie forget-me-nots for later. I’m in robed when the doctor knocks and asks for the story of what happened, which is of primary interest because her husband’s a cyclist. Based on my reflection, something’s broken and it’s not the rib assumption like I had been operating on. We go around the corner and down a hall to the radiologist who takes x-rays of my left shoulder from various angles. A few minutes later we have the conclusion, I shattered my clavicle into  disproportionate thirds and I am without health insurance.