Crit Crash
With 5 laps to go, speeding around the second to last right-hander at 40mph, poised perfectly on the inside with the sprinters, the two riders in front of me suddenly locked bars, swerved sharply to the left and instantly cleaned out my front wheel.
My right hand hit the ground first, still holding tightly to the bars, then my hip and thigh slammed and skipped off the pavement. I could hear the crash unfolding in dramatic slamming cracks and wailing brakes off to the left as I rag dolled briefly through the air after the initial impact and somehow landed on my back atop a rider-less bike. At that point I became a passenger, trapped on the grinding metal sled, speeding helplessly towards something the race organizers determined dangerous enough to duct tape an old blue mattress around.
It all fell to slow motion, the blur of pavement, the slice of sky, the smell of rubber and sweat. I couldn’t hear anything, feel anything.
I knew I was going to collide with the mattress; it was only a matter of how. There was a pause, a calm; in that brief instant I was intensely focused and sharply aware. I took deep a breath.
Then, like a film suddenly being switched from slow motion to real time, the bike beneath me jacked into the curb with an enormous metallic crash catapulting me violently into the air. I was weightless for a split second before dramatically slamming the barrier headfirst. The mattress bottomed out and my helmet cracked sharply as it struck whatever it was covering. I could instantly taste the musty mattress, feel my chin stab my chest, my shoulder strike something solid. My feet came over my head as I glanced off the barrier spinning upside down and sideways in the air, eye’s closed, limbs flailing, weightless again, wondering briefly what was next; understanding clearly that precious moment before reality has a consequence.
I landed with a whiplashing slam flat on my back and slid to a stop, my eyes still tightly closed as if not seeing would somehow change the result.
I lay heavy for moment, thick with adrenaline, my heart racing, my breath slow and steady. Gradually I began to feel the sweat sting my right leg, my arm; grass blades tickled my neck, the ground was cool and soft beneath me. I opened my eyes. The sky was a brilliant cloudless light blue. I moved my toes, my feet, flexed the muscles in my legs, shrugged my shoulders, slowly turned my head side to side.
I sat up. Luckily I had landed in a lush, grassy terrace beyond the barrier. I opened and closed my eyes tightly and began to take inventory. The buckle and side of my right shoe had been ground off exposing my bleeding small toes. My elbow and forearm were road rash black. The right leg of my shorts was all but gone. And my hand, I was afraid to look at the hand. I knew it hit first and would be the worst of it.
I took a deep breath and slowly held it up, looking at the partial glove hanging off the palm side first. I tried to move my fingers and although the brain impulse was arriving they only shifted a delayed fraction. The pain was excruciating. I closed my eyes tightly and took a few quick breaths in preparation, then flipped my hand around to look. The glove had helped, but most of the flesh had been peeled back completely exposing my 2 small knucklebones.
I turned it away quickly and closed my eyes. I felt the heat building from my body to my head, felt each heartbeat crisply and distinctly pulsing through my hand. The realization and anger of the situation coursed through me and out my pores; another chance wasted.
I rolled over onto my knees and stood up. I was shaky, dizzy; I took a step and fell back to my knees. The grass was soft and gentle in my hands. I paused for a second then tried again, head down, this time slower. I steadied myself and climbed up the banking towards the road. I could see the aftermath of the crash to my right; the chaotic mess of riders and bikes scattered everywhere blanketed by the toxic looming smell of burnt rubber and flesh. Getting trapped on the rider-less bike had sent me in the opposite direction of the main pileup; no one had even noticed, or come to check on me. I scanned for my bike; it was tangled tightly with 4 others in a pile pressed to the curb another 20 feet down. I walked over and with a bit of effort freed my bike from the mess. The bars were crooked, the front tire was flat, and the right shifter was punted in dramatically, but somehow both wheels still spun.
I looked up the road, then back to the crash. If the bike worked I had to try and get back in the race. I knew there were only 5 laps left, I knew they probably wouldn’t give me a free lap, but I knew if I didn’t try I would look back and regret it. I swung my leg over and landed on the saddle; my neck strained, my vision tunneled a bit. I found the pedals, clipped in and started riding slowly towards the pits.
It wasn’t much more than fifty yards from the crash to the crowd barriers lining the finishing straight of the course. Although I had my head down maneuvering the front flat and crooked bars I could feel the stares, hear the gasps and “oh my gods” as I passed the three to four deep crowd pressed tightly to the fencing. As I limped past the finish line towards the pit area the announcer called my name when he saw my number. I was apparently the only rider from the crash to attempt getting back in the race.
The pit area was a small dimple on the outside edge of the course just past the announcers stand. It was filled with wheels and sponsor logo covered hatchback vehicles backed in and set up as workstations.
When I pulled in a thin polo shirted mechanic urgently grabbed my bike and started on the wheel change while another banged on the shift lever trying to bend it back to its original position. I stood watching the bustle of activity almost out of body, as if it all somehow had nothing to do with me.
The crowd pounded loud continuous heavy-handed thuds on the barriers; I could feel the vibrations through my chest. The announcers voice echoed off the buildings over the thunder as he called the last laps of the race, the crowd in the stands next to the pits peered over watching the action intently; I could hear the people just behind me talking but couldn’t understand the words.
The two mechanics managed the repairs quickly enough to keep me on the lead lap and just as the race was coming around the last corner onto the front straight they set the bike up, one holding the bars, another calling urgently for me to come over; waiting to hold me.
I hobbled to them, slowly, eyes out of focus; they both looked at me tentatively. I nodded to them and eased a leg over the bike, perched on the saddle, and clipped in with the mechanic’s arm around my back holding me tightly, ready to push me out when the riders came through. The mechanic in front stepped away; it was time to go.
I looked down, the new wheel had a different color tire, the handlebar was straightened but not straight, the right shift lever was covered in blood and would need to be replaced. I could see my dark red small toes bleeding through the hole in my right shoe.
The sweat burned my legs where the skin had been torn off, the heat of the stillness was stifling; I closed my eyes, the crowd roared and pounded on the barriers, the announcer bellowed through the PA, my breathing was long and heavy, I felt my heart pounding through my toes, my hand, my head. I looked up at the empty road, settled in the saddle, leaned trustingly into the mechanic. In the spaces between the chaos I regained my focus, put my head down and whispered softly under my breath “never give up”.
The first riders came screaming past, attacking down the opposite side of the road with a great gust of wind and whirring cranks. “We’re going, we’re going now” the mechanic hollered as the 150-plus-rider group came charging towards us at over 4o miles an hour. I took a quick breath, felt his arm tense, the pressure of his hand on my back, then just as we started to move forward a race official jumped in front of us, nearly knocking us both down, yelling “no more free laps, no more free laps” The mechanic held up just in time to keep us from being clipped by the group and started screaming violently at the official to get out of the way, but it was no use. He stood firmly, directly in front of us, blocking our path with that light blue shirt and clipboard preventing any chance of integrating into the race with the group. The mechanic continued berating the official, who kept his back to us as we waited, watching the race go away, both of us coursing with adrenaline. When the entire field had passed the official finally moved aside and with great effort the mechanic restarted our original effort, his screams at the official turning to screams of encouragement close in my ear as he sprinted with his hand firmly on my back pushing me up to speed.
I stood up and sprinted after the quickly disappearing group purely on adrenaline; like an animal being released from a cage; the sudden surge eclipsing the pain, the breeze on my skin a welcome relief.
My first out of the saddle effort closed the gap to 20 or 30 feet and for a brief moment I thought I might make it back. I eased into the saddle, put my head down, and began turning over the too large gear I was started in. I measured my distance, corner to corner, straight away to straight away, my legs felt like frail twigs about to snap, my breathing came low and deep as I did my best to settle into a rhythm. The crowd cheered around each turn as I passed, head down, dangling off the group; it was obvious what had happened.
I held the 20-30 foot gap for 2 laps with gentle black-out tunnel vision stars tingling on my peripheral, clinging desperately but unable to close, pressing with everything I had, rolling long strained rocking shoulder big ring circles over like a metronome hoping for them to slow even slightly, knowing if I could just integrate into the group I’d have a chance. Refusing to accept the obvious until finally, gradually, the tunnel vision began closing to a dot, then a speck of light, the sound of the crowd, the announcer, disappearing somewhere far away. And in the impending delirium this occurs, the confrontation with your self. The broken pieces of your life held down become obvious open wounds; the impending physical blackout a mirror to what you’ve chosen and what you’re able to choose. The whole of who you are, pressed into these small moments, the struggle between what you believe and what you can accomplish; the will to test this with everything left in your consciousness. In this space I exist somewhere, somewhere on the edge of awareness, isolation, understanding each second the crowd and the barriers blend together and blur past that the fight is more important than the outcome, yet unwilling to accept it.
I grimaced and continued for another lap, undeterred, even though I was falling back rapidly. I didn’t want it to end this way; I didn’t want to let go.
I turned on to the front straight. The announcer was hollering through the PA. The bell for the last lap was ringing loudly. I could see the tail end of the field slipping away in the distance. It was over.
I slowly eased up, head down defeated, and soft-pedaled across the finish line, past the pits, determined at least to ride the last lap even if I was alone.
The enormous bell still echoed as I passed the announcers stand, the mechanics whistled and the crowd cheered loudly; they had seen everything.
It was the same around the entire course. Down the back straight a man came under the crowd barrier when he saw me coming, walked into the road, and gently patted my back as I rolled by with my head down.
I rode past the finish line and stopped in the pits to give back the front wheel. The mechanic that pushed me into the race saw me and instantly stopped what he was doing to come over. He put his arm around me and patted my back gently, then without saying anything took my bike and handed it off to another mechanic who quickly put it up in a stand and began checking it over. I leaned quietly up against the crowd fencing and stared off into the distance.
There was a buzz of activity in the pits with riders picking up wheels and spectators milling about the now open streets. The announcer was interviewing the winners on the podium, the crowd cheered; I put my head down and closed my eyes, it all became swirling white noise.
In the mix of all this I barely noticed a semi circle of people had begun to stand around me. When I looked up they were all very close, all blurry strangers faces. “Nice job” one of them said. I nodded. I could tell they wanted to talk to me but I was still too emotional to compose myself, so we stood in silence, me against the fence, them, a respectful couple of feet away.
Gradually the adrenaline began to wear off and the reality of the pain slowly crept in. The sweat was stinging my eyes, I could feel the throbbing in my hand again, my legs were cramping. I started getting dizzy and cold. I looked up but all I could see were the spectators hovering around me. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I knew I still had to see the doctor and manage my way back to the car to clean up. I was entirely conscious the worst of it was yet to come.
The mechanic called over that my bike was finished. I stood from my lean; the people moved aside so I could get out, I felt hands on my back as I passed. “Bike is good” the mechanic held it by the seat and pushed it towards me. I took it from him. There was a new front tire; the bars and shifters were straight. I looked up “don’t worry about it” he smiled “nice job out there… doctors just down a bit, you should go get checked out” I thanked him, swung my leg over the bike, and slowly weaved through the crowd.
The doctor was parked a half block down, also working out of a logo-covered hatchback. He and his team had clearly just been busy. There were three of them, two younger men in good shape with EMT outfits moving about quickly, cleaning up, organizing, talking on walkies to guide the ambulance off the course, and the doctor, a thin, middle aged gentleman with a kind face and short haircut.
I got off the bike and stood next to the car waiting until the doctor noticed me. “Ah yes, yes…I though we’d be seeing you” he said, completely deadpan as he approached. “Sit, sit here” calmly and quietly he pulled an enormous white cooler from the side of the car and set it by the open hatchback “lets take a look” I half fell onto the cooler as I tried to get to it. He steadied me, helped me down and looked into my eyes, “alright?” he asked. I nodded. He paused for a moment to be sure and then leaned back to access my body. “Mostly right side?” I nodded again. “Yes, yes” he muttered low, almost under his breathe.
He stood up, moved behind me, pressed his hand firmly against my neck and moved the other down my back “tingling, numbness, dizzy?” “I think mostly just what you can see, I hit my head, but I think I’m alright” he came around the front, looked in my eyes, at the helmet, “you’re helmets ok…good” he took my right arm gently “this looks like the worst of it” he said, rolling it over to take a look. The blood had covered everything by that point and my hand seemed like a mangled claw. He moved in and inspected closely, taking his time, he squinted a bit, rolled it right and left, huffed a little under his breath “well, lets clean you up…” he said turning away to get something out of the hatchback. He set everything up on the ground in front of me, paused for a second, and looked at me “ready?” I nodded.
He picked up a spray bottle and started on the leg first. I relaxed and took a breath as the skin tingled and the alcohol smell crept up to my face. He took a large gauze pad, pressed hard on my hip, and slowly pulled it towards him swiping my entire thigh. I felt nauseous, distant; I began to see gentle purple and blue stars, my peripheral vision slowly collapsed. I closed my eyes. I could hear the uninterested crowd shuffling past in random conversations, taste the alcohol in the back of my throat, hear the squeaking of the spray bottle, the tearing of tape and gauze packaging.
When he got to the hand I felt a jolt through my entire body and winced. “I can’t do much for this out here” I heard his voice, but it seemed far away, I still had my eyes closed. “You’ll need to go to a hospital and have this stitched up” he kept working. I could feel him pulling the flaps of skin, like a child tugging coat sleeves, the bottle spraying, the gauze tearing, and then everything disappeared.
When I opened my eyes, he was close to my face, looking right at me “you’re going to need that hand stitched up, it’s pretty serious” I looked down at my hand, he had covered it already. “And when you get home tonight scrub the others in the shower so they don’t get infected” I noticed my leg and arm were covered with gauze and wrapped in netting. “Do you have hydrogen peroxide at your house?” I stared into him as he asked the question, the words echoed softly, I imagined what a shower would feel like, it had been a long time since I’d had one.
I wanted to tell him everything, tell him I’d been living in my car for the past 2 months racing on the East Coast, tell him I drove in yesterday because my friend managed to get me a last minute race entry, tell him I spent nearly all my money on that entry fee gambling I’d make it back in the race, tell him I didn’t have a shower, or a home, that I was going to sleep in my car tonight, but I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him blankly, silently, as he stared back waiting for a response. Gradually his face changed from concern to understanding, and finally, in my extended silence, to realization.
He reached into his kit and started putting together a plastic bag with gauze, butterfly bandages, tape, small packets of antibiotics, aspirin. He rolled this up and without saying anything reached around and stuffed it in my back jersey pocket. “Clean the hand out as well as you can, tape the edges together and try not to move it for a few days” he held my right wrist “move your fingers” he tapped my fingers “can you feel this” I nodded “you’ll be alright” he said solemnly. I stood up and started over to my bike “hey…take care of yourself” he called. I looked him in the eyes “thanks… thank you”. I eased gently onto the bike, clipped in, and began to make my way back to the car.
Volvo was parked a few blocks over on a quiet side street away from the race. I coasted off the bike, leaned it against the car, opened the hatch, sat down, and kicked off my shoes. The street was empty where I had parked. There was music from a band playing to the leftover race crowd in the distance. The sun was setting through the buildings. The heat from the closed up car felt good. I took off my helmet and lay back in the hatch with my legs dangling, closed my eyes, and reflected back on everything that had happened in the last 2 hours; it all still seemed slightly surreal. I faded peacefully in and out of this for a bit as the sun crept in and the warm comfortable car air filled my lungs.
Eventually I opened my eyes and sat up. The sun was fading low; it was starting to cool off.
I stood up and pulled the water container and towel to the side of the hatch. One at a time I pulled the sleeves and carefully took off my jersey and base layer without catching any of the dressings, stuffed them in a Ziploc bag, filled up a water bottle, sprayed it over my head and wiped off my face. The water was cool; it felt good to clear my eyes. I wrapped the towel around my waist and carefully took off my shorts. There wasn’t much left of the right side except the elastic band around the thigh; I was running out of cycling clothes. I stuffed them in the bag with the jersey and sat down to work on the socks. The left peeled easily enough, but the right was fused into my skin. At this point it was relative; I took a breath and quickly ripped it off. Tiny dots of dark red blood slowly bubbled up and pooled out. I watched, mesmerized for a second, before wiping it off with the corner of the towel. I carefully pulled a pair of shorts and sweatshirt on over the bandages, and still barefoot, lifted the bike up onto the roof rack.
After a quick walk around the car to be sure I hadn’t left anything I gingerly climbed in, closed the doors, crawled into the back and laid down deciding it was simply easier to spend the night right there where I was parked.
I drifted slowly off in the back of Volvo to the distant crowd sounds and conversations of the odd group walking past. My disappointment gently bled into the comfort of knowing I had done all I could, my success or failure, as it had been from the beginning, solely measured in the honesty of the effort.