It was going to be a marvellous day. With a total fire ban announced for Mount Bold, Dave changed plans and took his brand new mountain bike, "Groo the Wanderer" to Sellicks Hills, to play off-road as he's wanted to for ages. And the day did start out wonderfully --
Everything was great ... the weather, the bike, Dave's riding legs; not a problem in sight. But, as so often happens, there's a small element called luck. And when luck decides to run against you, there's no way to predict what will happen; certainly no way to prepare for it. If you could, you would, but the inevitable is highly likely to jump up and bite you, when you're not looking.
This, at left, is almost the last photo Dave took before it happened. Not just a crash, but a crash of
epic proportions (he never does anything by halves), at 48kph, halfway down a two kilometre mountain road. There's no clue as to what caused the crash ... everything was fine ... but the next moment he's flat on the rocks, and the damage is dire.
Fortunately, he didn't break his phone; and it's one of those shockproof, waterproof jobs that could take an impact and still work. He was riding alone (thank you, Covid!), so the first thing you do is post to Facebook and see if anyone is "on," and can they help. Luck was still on Dave's side, because loads of people were on, and he could indeed make contact with a riding friend Tony, who was able to pick him up at the gate at the top of the hill ...
Now comes the amazing part. He managed to get up on his feet and climb up a kilometre, at 10% gradient, in order to meet Tony at the top. That's a major enough achievement, when you've just come off a bike, but it became more and more astonishing as hours went by, and the Emergency Department at Noarlunga scanned him, and began to reveal the injuries.
Eight broken ribs, two of which are broken in several places each. A broken hip, and the shoulder socket is cracked. And then there's the knee, which has had surgery to clean and stitch it, and which may need further surgery. And with these injuries, he was able to walk out, up at 10% incline, on a lousy road.
Part of me is
amazed; part of me is proud, yes ... and another part of me is appalled. There's no way to prepare for this, no way to guard against it. Nothing you can do, but ride to the best of your ability, aim the bike downhill, let gravity take its course, and trust to luck. Maybe it's just me, but that last part, the "luck" factor, is the one that freaks me out.
This was Groo the Wanderer's maiden flight down a mountainside. Three days later, staff at Flinders Medical Centre are still monitoring Dave for signs of collapsed lung, pneumonia, infection, though the risk of neural damage has been discounted. He has two neural blocks in his backs -- tubes delivering industrial-grade drugs direct to the ribcage...
Despite all this, he's in good spirits, expecting to make a full recovery, though it will take quite some time; and yes, looking forward to getting back on the bike.
So, maybe it's just me? Because at this moment I have to say that the prospect terrifies me. It's not bikes that scare me: he's always ridden, since before we were married. It's not riding on gavel roads -- he's been doing that on Groot for a couple of years now, without incident. No, it's mountain bike riding. It's bombing down hills at 50kph, were a foot-high boulder could be right in front of your front wheel at any moment, and at those speeds you can't see it coming soon enough to do anything about it.
I do understand how it's a major thrill. I really do. But I ask myself, how much risk can I live with? How much insurance should the rider carry, to cover a long, long recovery after a crash like this? What about permanent disability? What about death?
And here's the bottom line. Sure, Dave will walk away from this -- eventually, after physiotherapy and months of healing and help from a whole support crew. But if the crash had been 2% worse, he wouldn't have walked away, not with all his limbs functional, not to mention his brain ... and I have the stone-cold feeling that he should be dead right now. He dodged the proverbial bullet this time.
Next time? That's what worries me.
And at this moment, there's no answer to this.
He'll be in FMC for another week or so, till they can taper off the drugs, take the neural blocks out of his back, get him up on his feet well enough to move under his own steam. Then the recovery process can begin; and obviously I'll do everything I possibly can to help, make it happen. But what about next time? I can't get that thought out of my mind.
