I've been riding bikes seriously for 20+ years and doing tris/dus for 18+ years. Wednesday was my day. I was finishing a 2.5 hour ride and just cooling down. i was out of the aero bars, traveling a relatively slow 18mph, and 5 minutes from parking the bike. I saw the truck coming at me. I saw him start to tun left across my lanes, apparently headed for the parking lot to my right. I made what I thought was eye contact and thought he was stopping. At any rate there was nothing I could do at that point, no matter what he did. Well, instead of stopping he actually began to accelerate, not to hit me, but to get across the road before the car 200-300 meters behind me got to that point in the road. At that point the slow motion realization that I was GOING to be hit began. I remember the impact and then flying through the air like a ragdoll. I remember the sickening crunch, but don't know whether it was me or my beautiful Saber. I also remember doing a fairly proficient martial-arts type roll upon impacting the ground with my right shoulder. I can't take much credit though, unless it was from muscle memory from my Marine Corps training. I was 100% in the hands of fate and physics at that point. I landed without significant impact on my helmeted head. At least there are no signs of impact on my helmet. Thats lucky for me; not so lucky for the kid who hit me. Before the pain hit me I launched a 1 1/2 minute tirade against him that probably wouldn't pass censors in the bluest magazine. Once I realized I was actally still alive and concious, I sat up, scanned my surroundings, found my target and fired away. I didn't much care who I was yelling at. It could have been an admiral for all I knew. I was on the Navy base here in Norfolk,after all. Hell, I was riding in one of the lowest traffic areas in the whole city! Well, eventually the pain hit me, and I laid back to succumb to the rescuers. The cop showed up and started asking questions. I bit my tongue when asked about the driver's actions. I asked the second cop to bring my bike over so that I could survey the damage. It had landed some 30-40 yards from me. He refused, claiming that he needed to take photos. At that point the real anger set in. I was a wreck. My bike was a wreck. And I wasn't able to move what with the EMTs and corpsmen swarming over me. I took a deep breath and let it pass. There was nothing I could do at that point. Fate had intervened in my IM traing and I was merely along for the ride. I began to take stock of my injuries. Head still on shoulders. Check. I can still move all my body parts. Check. Big sigh of relief. Uh oh. That left leg looks nasty down below the calf. At least the bones aren't through the skin. And my left hand looks concave from the back. Thats not how its supposed to look. And OOOOOOUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHH! So they immobilized me and put me on a backboard and neckbrace. Standard procedure, despite the fact that I was able to sit up and calmly remove my mangled Poggios. Has anyone else expierienced the pleasures of a backboard? Its hard surface dug in and made those parts that weren't injured hurt. The EMT missed my veins three times! I'm one of those folks with ropes for veins. How could he miss? More discomfort! I finally told him that unless it was legally binding that he stck an IV in me before arriving at the hospital, that I wasn't all that in need of fluids. I had been hydrating on the ride, after all! At the hospital I was rolled in an placed in the hallway, of course. Broken bones cannot compete with gunshots and heart-attacks. I was starving at this point since I had not eaten on the ride. And all I could think about was that I wanted my wife there. I wondered how long it would be before she arrived. She was in an operating room across town at that moment doing her anesthesia thing on a 24 hour call. I finally had someone get in touch with our day care lady who I knew would page my wife right away. Of course its hard to flag someone down when you're strapped to a backboard. The EMT of vein mis-marksmanship fame had even taped my head down as we arrived at the hospital. Apparently this is a legally correct procedure, despite the fact that I'd been sitting up having full conversations with him back at the crash site. I think he did it to scare even my medical wife when she finaly arrived. She showed up in scrubs, making her seem like part of the staff there. She could have completely taken over my treatment and I don't think anyone would have taken the time to ask who she was or if she even worked there. Eventally we got the x-rays done. The news was better than expected. Despite the several golfball-sized lumps on my leg, nothing appeared broken. My hand was another story, though. The two medial metacarpals were in several pieces. Congrats Brian! After all that you only have a broken hand, severe contusions on the leg, and some industrial grade road rash! The irony is that my shorets and jersey were non-the-worse for it! I had abrasions on my shoulders and hips. Why were there no gaping holes in the fabric? Ah ha! One thing to be thankful for! Oh, and that other small detail that I wasn't chilling like a side of beef down in the morgue!
So be careful out there, friends. But remember, all the care in the world, and all the skill in the world doesn't mean it can't happen. When its your day, its your day. You never know when...