Dust rose up in mini plumes from the wheels of the bike in front. sweat dripped down from our helmets clinging onto our chins for a brief pause before being deposited onto the top tube as we crested the climb. The view from the saddle had never looked more promising. Clear blue skies, dry trails, a whole summer of riding possibilities opened up before us as did a long singletrack descent packed full of tight corners, rocks and a little bit of air. We descend. A techi drop in then a fast carving left then oops got this wrong. Thud. And so the summer stopped in the shadow of a three-foot drop off.
I gingerly pull myself up causing an unsettling grinding sensation somewhere under my chin. I quickly lay back down again on the sloping stony surface. My riding comrades John and Scott hover over me, running through the 1st aid drills whilst I lay prone. John calls an ambulance, which puts paid to any thoughts of walking down the mile or so off the moor to the local pub and working out a plan over a pint.
There is nothing else to do but stare at the sky, take in the warm sunshine, berate myself for stacking, field questions on how do you feel and wait for help. Which I guess is plenty to keep me occupied. Being in a remote spot it is the mountain rescue who comes to my aid. They are led by a calm, assured, cheerful fell running doctor, who quickly assesses the scene and runs through exactly what I’ve done to get in to this spot. The rest of the team arrive, huffing and puffing a little but they have the excuse of carrying a stretcher. After 10 minutes of pinching, prodding and probing questions like “what’s your age?” aimed at establishing signs of mental clarity; a rare psychological state at the best of times for me; we all concur that I am probably of low IQ and that it is nothing worse than a broken collarbone and bashed ribs. Given the option of being carried off the moor on a stretcher doesn’t appeal. The mountain rescue team are more concerned with my health than my humiliation but I can’t live this down; being carried off; unless both legs are broken. Talk of a stretcher has a galvanizing effect though ,and with a fair bit of help I am up off the floor, a bit shaky and dizzy, but good enough to walk. My left arm is slinged and more checks are done to make sure I am o.k. and good to make it off the moor on two legs. I begin to plod slowly at the head of a slightly comical looking procession comprised of a slinged up man, a sprightly, sure footed doctor, a stretcher team carrying an empty stretcher, two mountain bikers pushing bikes and a helpful young walker who had attached himself to my bike in the hope of riding it back down into the valley. The plod accelerates into a faux-jaunty walk that fools no one but myself before returning back to a more appropriate sedate plod as we approach the ambulance. I can’t be looking too good for the ambulance. I already feel like a fraud almost wishing the injuries were worse to justify all this help.
30 minutes in the ambulance and the fraud feelings are eased away by a combination of pain caused by the rough road and an understanding mountain bike enthusiast ambulance crew.
Arriving at accident and emergency in an ambulance appears to have the effect of an upgrade and I am whisked straight through to a nurse who also mountain bikes and then x-ray. I barely getting a chance to view the casualties in casualty watching Casualty on T.V. An episode featuring a small boy cycling towards an enormous truck doesn’t look promising.
In the x-ray room a burly man approaches “mountain bike?” “mountain bike”..,“wrist”..., “collarbone”..., “suchandsuch woods...” ‘Hebden...” “roots...” “drop off." Two broken monosyllabic mountain bikers commiserate.
I am out of X-RAY and its time to wait a while for the results and a doctor. Its busy now in the casualty waiting room, a man walks in dressed in his cricket whites looking frantic maybe looking for somebody, the mountain biker sits still as if in a trance, I am sat down still unchanged from my days ride complete with knee pads. A burly man with a decided whiff of ale on his breath sits next to me and leans in conspiratorially “been playing football lad?” I am rescued by my name being called out and I am through to a doctor who quickly tells me my collarbone is indeed broken. Another nurse puts on a new sling and says he will be riding tomorrow after his shift which makes me think of a made up statistic that should be true. 76% of NHS staff are keen mountain bikers.
I step outside the hospital and wrestle the phone from my pocket with my one free hand hoping to get a lift back home. By some appalling twist of fate a fly is waiting, literally in the wings, to play his part in the story. Here he comes zooming in to sight and into the back of a hospital-dried throat. Ribs and collarbone creak in unison, an agonizing half-cough is all I can muster. I can’t speak and can’t cough the fly up. I am back inside the hospital desperate for some water anything to stop me making the effort of another cough. The receptionist thinks something is seriously wrong before realizing I just need water. The obstruction is shifted but the voice doesn’t come back for days. Making me sound ridiculously weak.
And now a week on the blue skies have gone, the bike sits in the garage looking forlorn with a scuffed seat. It usually sits in the garage looking neglected with a scuffed seat so nothing new here. Bones heal as I sit about reading mountain bike magazines with my effected weak voice accepting and turning down offers of coffee and tea. In my case falling off the bike resulted in nothing too serious but as ever the Mountain Rescue, Ambulance staff, and doctors do a 1st class job, getting me out of a bad spot, from the shadow of a three-foot drop off and on to the road to recovery. As for hospital nursing staff 64% say they prefer treating mountain bikers to any other casualties.