Went mountain biking yesterday at Baker Creek. Messing around on the pump track (you are supposed to be able to go around it completely without pedaling) and pushed too close to the edge going over into the brush. The bike decided this was a bad idea and it didn’t want to go into the brush so it stopped cold and flung me over the handlebars where I tried to stop the ground with my forehead (mostly helmet). As I lay on the slope on my back with my head down and feet elevated skyward, my first thoughts were, “Is the neck broken?” Twenty years ago, I would have sprung back onto the track with a prideful, “Meant to that!” This time I couldn’t help but feel the kudzu, poison ivy, and brambles enveloping me compassionately as if they were going to support me as they dragged me into the underworld. After answering the adults that I was okay, my son rode over and offered his assistance to me. I really have to teach that boy to say, “Sanka, are ya dead mon?” So that I can reply, “Ya mon, I’m dead.”
Now, my son gets home and tells the story. “Dad was going around the track then all of a sudden he just disappeared. Everyone was laughing and finally asked, ‘Are you okay?’ and we barely hear Dad reply, ‘I’m good.’ So I ride over to him and he’s just laying there like a dead body.”
This morning, Cathy and Evan are talking about how his scratches have improved and she says, “Dad somehow looks worse.” To which Evan replies, “Well, that’s what happens when you die.”
Today, I am a little tender particularly in my shoulders. Perhaps half an inch shorter. And range of motion in my neck is reduced. To look 90 degrees to my left or right results in protest from my body.
I am ready to ride again!
