Desperately Seeking Attention
Using this thing called a “cell phone” I reached Stabby, and he said they had started without me safe in the knowledge that I’d catch up sooner or later. I chased pretty hard and just about ate shit as I slid through a muddy corner with them just within earshot to hear me careening through the underbrush. We rode together for a short while, but Eric had a co-worker with him that was trying to “get back on the bike”, so I ended up groupless again. Although the trail was in fine condition (for the most part) it was slick in some sections, and my worn-out Rampage was occasionally looking more like a bagel than a 2.35 knobby. Unforunately it was in the bagel form on a slick rocky descent, and before I knew it I was on my way down to the ground.
I hit fairly hard, and my hands took the brunt of the impact. My left hand was throbbing, but my usual operating procedure is to get back on the bike as quick as possible and ride it off. This did not work, and it got much worse. It became quite apparent that I needed to find the quickest route back to my Dirty Little Box as I couldn’t really hold the bars without pain, and using the front brake (my only brake) was impossible. As I rode back to the parking lot I wondered if I needed to go to the Urgent Care, or should I just change my shoes and run some more. The Pie is a nurse, and I could only imagine she would be disappointed in my decision making skills had I chose to do some more Run Club. Instead of the Urgent Care I decided to go home for her opinion.
The Pie looked at my hand when I got home. She said it could very well be a break. The affected area was a very common place for a broken bone (she has years of ER experience). She also said that if it was broken it would still be broken tomorrow, so I could put off going to get X-rays till Sunday if it still hurts. Since we had arranged for some nonrefundable childcare that night for The Fajita so we could take The Boy out to dinner I chose to drink a few beers, pop some ibuprofen, and do some RICE in lieu of actual medical care.
I was kinda bummed all night. For me to even consider seeking medical care means that I actually banged myself up pretty good. I am cheap, stubborn, and an American (I hate inconvenience), so avoiding proper medical attention is my modus operandi. I also don’t want the “Oh, it’s just a little boo-boo” speech from a doctor, or the “just a little boo-boo, but we took X-rays” bill associated with seeking professional help. I think it all worked out fine as I woke up Sunday with a less than fully usable hand, but a lot less pain than the day before. Maybe no mountain biking for awhile, but no need for a cast either. Bullet dodged. I think the 1,774 cc’s of Amstel Light and 887 cc’s of Sam Adams healed it. That and a shit ton of red meat for dinner.
This makes three years running that I’ve had a silly injury in the months of January/February. At least I didn’t get hurt cleaning my bike, downhilling with Mad Dog as my copilot, or wrestling The Stick this time. This also makes three years in a row of trusting The Pie’s diagnosis and avoiding appropriate medical care. If you can’t marry up, at least marry someone with a useful occupation. In my case I got both.