It's becoming difficult to talk about what happened. When people ask, and they do, my replies are terse and I often attempt to change the subject immediately. This is a little out of character for me. I live for storytime, especially when I can tell a story that involves pain, humour, or best of all, both at once. I relish my tragicomedies the most, and I tend to serve up a nice side of hyperbole for effect. Which makes this account very different from my usual fare. It really was that painful, it's not funny, and I have photo evidence.
I ran out of gas right after I crossed the Oak Street bridge. Normally not such a big deal, my bike isn't all that heavy, and I can push it pretty far if I have to. I guess I should have taken the cosmic tip-off that there was some bad ju-ju headed my way when the engine sputtered and died at the bottom of a very steep hill. There I was, blocking traffic coming off of one of the major traffic routes into Vancouver, cursing my existence, and trying to start the bike again. It didn't start, despite repeated attempts, accompanied by the requisite "Come on! Come ooOOOnn!". Undaunted, and a titch upset, I leaned into it and got the bike up the hill. There's a major intersection at the top of the hill, so I pushed the bike up onto the sidewalk and had a bit of a breather. I must have looked a little the worse for wear resting my head on the tank, as I recall a concerned citizen asking me if I was ok. I waved, as yet unable to convince my brain that at some point there would be enough oxygen in the system to speak again.
I moved on down the sidewalk after getting my breath back a bit, and stopped at the next intersection. Here I paused, searching my rather sketchily formatted data files for a nearby petrol station, preferably downhill from where I was. Unable to conjure up the necessary information, I called information. After getting "the four-one-one", I tried calling a friend for a second opinion. Cosmic tip-off number two: there were no petrol stations downhill from me, and the closest option was five blocks up yet another steep hill.
I sat on the bike for a bit, pondering my next move. I didn't want to push my bike any more than I already had, but then again I didn't want to spend the next hour of my evening walking around with a jerry-can. I decided to try starting the bike one more time, on the off-chance that it wasn't as dry as all the previous attempts had led me to believe. Wonder of wonders, the engine turned over, rumbled a bit, and established a nice little rhythm! Overjoyed at my sudden good fortune, I pulled up to the stop sign headed north. No traffic from the west, and bumper-to-bumper from the east. I pulled into the west-bound median lane and had a good look down the curb lane to make sure it was clear. I saw a lane empty of vehicles, and pulled ahead.
In rapid succession, my leg told me it was most likely broken and could I please explain myself, I found that I had achieved enough hang-time to conclude that I would be dead soon, and I had myself a nice little bounce on the street. At this point I realized that unless the afterlife really sucked ass, I was still alive! I also realized that I was keeping up a fairly impressive stream of f-words and f-word compounds. I popped my helmet off, and started trying to drag my sorry carcass off of the street, while looking about for my bike. Some strangers stopped me from trying to move around, but not before I saw my baby, twenty feet away from where I last remembered being. These words are engraved in my mind: "M-m-my bike...ffffuck."
The paramedics showed up after a few minutes, and took me to the hospital, where I found out just how ineffective morphine is when you have multiple broken bones. I didn't even really feel stoned, despite getting somewhere between twenty and thirty injections of 10 mg each. I lost count. They decided that they didn't need to do any surgery, and put me in a cast, which hurt more than I can describe. Which reminds me, I forgot to mention that the bumper hitting my leg was the most painful experience of my life. And I've had a few painful experiences. Just ask me, I'll tell you.
It's been a little while, and that was about as funny as I could make that little story. I'm thankful that the injuries I received are as minimal as they are, and I'm staying as upbeat as I usually am. Which is to say, not at all. On the plus side, I have a removable cast so the nurse who comes to my house can change the dressing. It's pretty sweet. Here are some photos of my leg after a couple of weeks of healing, and a couple of photos of my bike. If you find them boring, make a game out of it! Guess which photo is the most painful. Here's a hint. It's not the leg.
