Who often reminds me, as only a loving big sissy can, “It’s not all about you, Ron.” But this post might be. 😜

A subset of humble blog readers, who also happen to be personal friends, have reached out to see how I’m doing post bike accident. Which I’ve greatly appreciated. Here’s more than they, and you, prob wanna know. If my sissy has read this far, she’s rolling her eyes.

Five of us were enjoying a truly beautiful spring day, sunny, 50’s, meaning built-in air conditioning. In a pace-line, we were two hours into a two hour and twenty minute ride, baring down on Tumwater High School at 20-22mph thanks to a slight tailwind.

I was fifth of five. The lead rider, who has been relegated to Witness Protection, did not point out a small, but deep divot in the road. Remember sports fans, whenever you’re on the front, your main responsibility is to the be the eyes for the whole train. Rider number four hit the devilish divit head on, and as a result, slowed quite a bit. I was sitting my customary three feet behind him and didn’t have enough time to avoid riding into his back wheel. At the last fraction of a second, I turned my wheel to avoid his, but all that did was create an angle that launched me dead left into and across the center of the road. Picture a rock skimming across a glassy pond.

My skimming across the pavement happened right in front of a kind and caring woman on the way to work. Had she left for work 20-30 seconds earlier she very well could’ve ran over me. She checked on me and called it in while my friends looped back to provide additional/wonderful support. Soon, a bevy of young male firefighters began asking me questions and poking and prodding me. If I was gay, I would’ve immediately started feeling better. They asked me who the President was, and I said, “Oh man, I feel badly enough already.”

My friends studied my helmet and saw that there were no scratches and so everyone knew my compromised cognition was just my normal state of being. While I was sliding across the road, I was sure I’d broken my collar bone or hip or both. When I came to a stop and was able to sit up and eventually get to the side of the road, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that apart from road rash on my right shoulder, elbow, and knee, all the damage was confined to my right rib cage. Which hurt like a motherfecker.

The fire boys recommended I go to the hospital for a more thorough eval, but they have to say that, right? One also stated with a wink what all my cycling friends and I already know from experience, there’s absolutely nothing they can do for broken ribs.

Meanwhile my friends were putting my chain back on and checking out CanRon, the name of my newish whip, which remarkably, was almost entirely unscathed, maybe because it first bounced off me instead of the road.

Then, I somehow rode it home chapperoned by the team until we got to Deschutes Falls Park and then BC rode with me all the way into the garage atop the Fifth Street Bridge. There’s only two explanations for how I made it home under my own power. Stupidity and adrenaline.

The first night was scary. I had help at dinner, but afterwards, when alone, I was unable to move. I could hear my ribs rattling when breathing, which was even painful. My doc cycling friend who fancies himself a comedian, advised, “Just don’t move or breath.” Eventually, I tried to get into bed, but ended up half on the edge of the mattress and half off. Then, I couldn’t get off the edge of the bed. There may have been a lot of moaning and even tears. Masculinity is overrated.

Eventually, I had a good idea, which like the aurora borealis, happens on occasion. The recliner for the win. Somehow, I slept as well in it as in bed. And that continues to be the case.

I read it takes twelve weeks to recover, but my doc cycling comedian friend texted this yesterday, “You can do activities as tolerated. It should start getting better about 2 weeks after the injury. It will be mostly gone by 6 to 8 weeks.”

The good news is I am way, way better already, six days in. Yesterday, I walked 1.25 miles to the gym, cycled for 30 minutes, and walked home. Just don’t ask me what kind of watts I was pushing. It’s amazing to be able to go from sitting to standing without feeling like someone is jamming a huge butcher knife right into my side. Now, it’s more of a butter knife.

So, my goal is to be back running, cycling, and lastly swimming, closer to six weeks than eight. I mean I need to be ready for the start of the Tour de France in early July. And time is wasting.