I had surgery last night. Successful, I guess. Pics or it didn't happen.
When someone cuts through your skin and tendons and whatnot, and puts a bunch of screws in your broken bones, it sort of hurts. Who knew?
Later.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Race Report: 2008 TBF
Not a great day at the races.
The day started well enough. I was looking especially dapper before the start, and perhaps a little menacing—the unshaven mystery man in black.
The picture above probably doesn't look that special, especially to anyone familiar with mountain bike racing. It's just a racing picture, the likes of which you could see on hundreds of racer-guy blogs just like mine. To you, it says very little.
You can't see any skin, so it's probably cold. The trees are void of leaves. Some guy is glued to my wheel. I'm either smiling or grimacing. Our numbers are pinned to the front of our jerseys. We're on single speeds. The course looks boring. That's about it. Far short of the requisite thousand words a picture should tell.
I can add a few details. January. Completing the first lap of a two-lap race. A bitter north headwind. A flapping number. I muster a smile for my cheering spouse. I'm oblivious. Care-free. And minutes away from my first real injury in 29 years of racing. Wrist. Broken. Shattered. Shadoobie.
It was a TBF race held out at Granite Bay on Folsom Lake. I had done a number of TBF races in the past. They are expensive, and the course isn't very exciting, but they are only 30 minutes from my house. I used to live less than a mile from a ride that included parts of the race course, so I know the area well.
Race day began like any other except for the bizarre request at registration to pin our numbers to the front of our jerseys, something I had never done in all my years of racing. The front? Really?
It was windy that day, and the number flapped about and made a lot of noise. It crackled with nearly every pedal stroke. Did it distract me enough to make a big mistake on the course? Maybe, but probably not.
I don't want to go into a blow-by-blow account of the race, because there isn't much to tell, so I will get to the juicy part. Basically the guy you see on my wheel was there for about eight miles, and he was really getting on my nerves. When you are racing against a guy with similar ability with just one gear, it's not uncommon to ride together for prolonged periods. It's not like you can put it in the big chainring and attack. But to sit behind someone for that long on a windy day and not take a single pull is not cool.
So unfortunately I lost my cool. I decided to either get rid of him or blow up trying. I knew a little area with some technical sections was coming up, so I hit the gas. If I could get a gap I thought I could hold it to the finish.
There was an S-turn with a big granite boulder in the middle of it that you ride up and over. I went into the first turn way too fast, swung too far outside over the top, then ended up too far inside on the second turn. I clipped a smaller rock and went down.
Typically one wants to tuck-and-roll in this situation, and I always have in the past, but there was a rock heading straight for my face. Instinctively, I put my left hand out to protect myself and that was that.
The stolen pictures below tell the story:
I popped up quickly and grabbed my handlebar with my right hand as I stood up. As I tried to grab the left grip I totally missed. I thought, hey, that's weird. When I looked down I realized why: my hand wasn't anywhere near where it was supposed to be. I actually tried to start riding but the photographer who took these pictures stepped in front of me and talked me out of it.
I have been riding a bike since I was four years old, and racing since I was 12. Crashing for me is fairly rare, and even when I do it's typically been mostly minor—a scrape, a bruise, a cut, a separated shoulder. I broke some ribs once, but I don't really count that as a "broken bone" per se. No, this was a full-on major injury, my first.
It did not hurt that much, so I didn't actually think it was broken. I figured my wrist was dislocated and we'd make a quick trip to the doc, get it popped back into place, and I would be riding the next day. But the X-rays showed the radius broken into four pieces.
The result was surgery, a plate and I think 12 screws. I will be in rehab mode for a while with significant time off the bike. It's a bummer from a cycling standpoint, but it's also going to greatly affect day-to-day life and put a burden on my family. We also have a vacation scheduled that is now in jeopardy. We'll see what happens with that.
Later.
The day started well enough. I was looking especially dapper before the start, and perhaps a little menacing—the unshaven mystery man in black.
You can't see any skin, so it's probably cold. The trees are void of leaves. Some guy is glued to my wheel. I'm either smiling or grimacing. Our numbers are pinned to the front of our jerseys. We're on single speeds. The course looks boring. That's about it. Far short of the requisite thousand words a picture should tell.
I can add a few details. January. Completing the first lap of a two-lap race. A bitter north headwind. A flapping number. I muster a smile for my cheering spouse. I'm oblivious. Care-free. And minutes away from my first real injury in 29 years of racing. Wrist. Broken. Shattered. Shadoobie.
It was a TBF race held out at Granite Bay on Folsom Lake. I had done a number of TBF races in the past. They are expensive, and the course isn't very exciting, but they are only 30 minutes from my house. I used to live less than a mile from a ride that included parts of the race course, so I know the area well.
Race day began like any other except for the bizarre request at registration to pin our numbers to the front of our jerseys, something I had never done in all my years of racing. The front? Really?
It was windy that day, and the number flapped about and made a lot of noise. It crackled with nearly every pedal stroke. Did it distract me enough to make a big mistake on the course? Maybe, but probably not.
I don't want to go into a blow-by-blow account of the race, because there isn't much to tell, so I will get to the juicy part. Basically the guy you see on my wheel was there for about eight miles, and he was really getting on my nerves. When you are racing against a guy with similar ability with just one gear, it's not uncommon to ride together for prolonged periods. It's not like you can put it in the big chainring and attack. But to sit behind someone for that long on a windy day and not take a single pull is not cool.
So unfortunately I lost my cool. I decided to either get rid of him or blow up trying. I knew a little area with some technical sections was coming up, so I hit the gas. If I could get a gap I thought I could hold it to the finish.
There was an S-turn with a big granite boulder in the middle of it that you ride up and over. I went into the first turn way too fast, swung too far outside over the top, then ended up too far inside on the second turn. I clipped a smaller rock and went down.
Typically one wants to tuck-and-roll in this situation, and I always have in the past, but there was a rock heading straight for my face. Instinctively, I put my left hand out to protect myself and that was that.
The stolen pictures below tell the story:
I popped up quickly and grabbed my handlebar with my right hand as I stood up. As I tried to grab the left grip I totally missed. I thought, hey, that's weird. When I looked down I realized why: my hand wasn't anywhere near where it was supposed to be. I actually tried to start riding but the photographer who took these pictures stepped in front of me and talked me out of it.
I have been riding a bike since I was four years old, and racing since I was 12. Crashing for me is fairly rare, and even when I do it's typically been mostly minor—a scrape, a bruise, a cut, a separated shoulder. I broke some ribs once, but I don't really count that as a "broken bone" per se. No, this was a full-on major injury, my first.
It did not hurt that much, so I didn't actually think it was broken. I figured my wrist was dislocated and we'd make a quick trip to the doc, get it popped back into place, and I would be riding the next day. But the X-rays showed the radius broken into four pieces.
The result was surgery, a plate and I think 12 screws. I will be in rehab mode for a while with significant time off the bike. It's a bummer from a cycling standpoint, but it's also going to greatly affect day-to-day life and put a burden on my family. We also have a vacation scheduled that is now in jeopardy. We'll see what happens with that.
Later.
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