Crash, Bang, Wallop!

I'm a rather battered and bruised blogger this evening. Since the last post the pogo stick of fortune has jumped up and down (sometimes down rather more abruptly than planned). But before I describe my various ailments, let's enjoy the good stuff....

... Julie and I enjoyed the good stuff on the Monday before last as my flat sale completed, toasting it with a bottle of Dom Perignon. Very decadent for a Monday evening. Yes, the property crash didn't hit St Margaret's too badly, as Andrew and I sold our flat for a profit. The old estate agent's mantra proved correct: Location, location, location. The flat might not have been the most beautiful example of 1950s architecture, but it was very conveniently located near St Margaret's station. So, despite the biggest housing slump for years we were always ticking over with viewings and sold the day our early redemption penalty expired. With Ben staying in the flat till the last minute it all worked out perfectly for me.

Meanwhile, Julie and I had an offer accepted on a house in Liphook. With that progressing, we hope to be moved before the wedding. It's fair to say we'll both be pleased to get out of our poky, creaking flat in Haslemere. After all, we need somewhere to put all our wedding presents!

The wedding itself is coming together. There's nothing complicated about the organisation, but the checklist is long and I expect the next few months will see a continuation of the long evening To Do lists I've been using recently. I invented a new word to sum it all up: "Choreful". When someone asks how my evening was, I reply "Choreful". They get the gist, and I hope you do too.

Anyway, want to hear a tale of high speed drama, where the brave hero comes back from the dead to win a glorious victory? Well, you should maybe read Lance Armstrong's "It's Not About the Bike". My tale is somewhat less glamorous.

Some months back I entered Race #3 of an Evening Triathlon series at Dorney Lake near Windsor. My enthusiasm for it was low: It was expensive (£45), inconvenient (leave early, drive away from Haslemere, get home very late) and completely unsuitable for my triathlon strengths (long swim, flat bike, short run). But with the money spent there was no point in wasting it.

The expected heavy rain just about held off, but under angry skies I started the 750m Open Water swim near the back. I hadn't swum in weeks, and not in a lake for nearly 2 years. I had all the expected sighting and technique problems, so reverted to breast stroke fairly early and was reasonably happy to stumble out of the water in about 18 minutes.

I had considered not wearing a wetsuit, to speed up transition. It would also have made breast stroking easier, and in hindsight I would have found the water just about warm enough. After about 2 minutes struggling to get the wetsuit over my left heel I was ruing my decision not to man-out the cold. Eventually, after watching most of the 10% of the field who somehow swam slower than me pedal off into the Berkshire countryside, I got the damned thing off.

Onto the bike and I started overtaking people. It was a strange 6 lap course alongside the lake. A vague triangular shape it had 3 turns which we tight enough to slow you down considerably, but wide enough to reward the braver cornerers. After a curiously slow 2nd lap I put the hammer down for the final 4. My cornering was excellent and I gradually made up the time I had lost on a colleague from work who had got his wetsuit off much faster.

With him in sight I approached the final tight left-hand bend before the sweeping curve back to transition. Suddenly my attention was drawn to a rider exiting the corner who somehow managed to hit the inside verge and was wobbling dangerously. My instinct was to bleed off a bit more speed to avoid careering straight into a fallen rider, but disaster struck. I made the basic mistake of touching the brakes just after I had started turning and my back wheel skidded out from beneath me.

In the micro-second before I hit the ground, I swore to myself and thought "this is unusually dramatic for me". After my head hit the tarmac I sat up, dazed. I had fallen right in front a Marshall who quickly came over and asked if I wanted a medic. All I knew was I had hit the ground hard while going at about 18mph, so I figured I must have done something worthy of medical treatment. I nodded. Then I did a systems check:

My head was OK as the helmet took the impact, and the punch-drunk feeling subsided pretty quickly. I tested my arm fully expecting to discover a broken collar bone or wrist, but both were fine. A bit grazed, but fine. As far as I could see my left hand had borne the brunt of the crash. My middle finger had swollen up to twice it's normal size. Again, I was surprised that I could bend it.

I had crashed by the apex of the corner, so was proving a bit of a hazard to navigation. A few other riders asked how I was as they whizzed past, ignoring the Marshall's plea to slow down. I was more concerned with getting out of the way, more out of a fear of someone crashing into me, than any consideration for the hold up I was causing. With the Marshall's help I got off the road, and sat on the grass watching the race go by.

A medic appeared. He came the the same conclusion I had about my bones and so set about patching me up. It was only when he radioed in to say that I had a bad case of road rash did I realise that the worst injuries were out of my sight. He found some cuts on my legs and elbow, but most of his focus was on my left armpit and shoulder, which seemed to have been dragged along the tarmac.

10 minutes later he was done. "It'll be painful for the next few days, but you'll recover" he told me. I picked up my bike and checked it over. After fitting the chain back on, it seemed ok, and I started walking back to transition. Walking in cycling shoes is not easy, as the cleats protrude about 2cm under the ball of the foot, so I pretty quickly decided to hop on and cruise back the 500m to T2.

I wasn't sure whether to run or not. My legs seemed to be fine, but my heart wasn't really in the race anymore. I remembered the words of some great triathlete: "There are only 2 reasons you should DNF: Death or two broken legs". I'm not convinced that's entirely true, but it inspired me to HTFU and run 5km.

The run was comparatively strong. I was probably last to start running from my wave, but I did overtake quite a few of the slower athletes. My mind was not entirely switched on, however, and by rights I should have been disqualified. The run was two out-and-back laps on the other side of the lake to the bike course. As I approached the finish I thought I should put the burners on and make up one more place by out sprinting the guy in front of me. Suddenly, however, he turned left to go back for a second lap, probably about 10m further on than I had turned 10 minutes before. I must have accidentally taken a 20m short-cut. A Marshall should have taken my number and kicked me out of the event. Maybe they saw my scars and took pity.

Not wanting to hang around I left quickly. Packing my bike away a number of people came over to ask what happened, all sympathising and congratulating me for finishing. Judging by the way they spoke, my shoulder didn't look good. Sure enough as I drove home the endorphins wore off and the pain took over. By the time I got home I just wanted to cry.

Julie was a great help. Each night she applied cream to my road rash and after 5 days the skin was pretty much healed, save a couple of scars on my elbow and armpit. It's transpired, however, that my left shoulder had taken quite a blow. By the location of the worst scars I think my left arm was forced straight up as I landed, bringing the elbow up towards the ear. This has left the shoulder joint bruised and although I'm not in a great amount of pain, I can't do some odd things, such as point or change into second gear while driving. Thankfully, Julie has an automatic, so we've swapped cars for the time being.

To compound my misery, today I had a minor surgical procedure to remove some moles from my back. The stitched wounds are surprisingly painful, and I'm typing this confident of a very painful night's sleep. Physically, I appear to be falling apart, but these wounds will heal soon and the good aspects to life at the moment will prove to be far more permanent.