Ah, crashing your bike. How humbling. How thrilling! Oh gods why does it hurt so much?

As I lay on the ground, trying to recall the 1.2 seconds of absolute shit that just happened, a couple of thoughts came to mind. First, am I broken, and how much? Second, what in all the levels of “what the fuck” just happened?

Pardon my French—I don’t speak it, and Latin’s a poor substitute. Onwards! These are serious matters!

My exceptionally muscular left buttock (photos not forthcoming, sorry) was in serious pain. My first thought was that I had possibly broken my hip. A bit earlier in life than expected, but I’ve always been a high achiever when it comes to injuries. My left arm was quite bruised and scraped up and the sharp grass that I had bounced into had caused some lovely lacerations. My head was desperately searching for a nearby church bell, because something was definitely ringing loud and clear.

Overall everything seemed intact but I was definitely going to need a steady stream of analgesics for the next few days. Near as I can figure, when I took a sharp turn around a concrete barrier at 18 mph, my wheel hit a dip in the dirt, and my left hand decided it had better places to be than the handlebar. I went flying, flipped onto my left side with the bike still attached to my feet, and bounced 10 feet through the grass. I would have loved to have seen video of this; I bet it looked terrible.

My bike lay in the grass nearby, calming waiting for the ride to continue as if nothing was amiss. It even landed drivetrain side up. Blessed be.

Since Tina was out of town and I figured all my bones and ligaments were intact, I made my way home with just a smidgen of blood oozing down my arm and only a few grimaces.

48 hours later and I am still a bit annoyed that I am not yet completely healed. My left side, which took the brunt of the crash, is still badly bruised. Stairs and walks longer than half a mile remain deeply unpleasant. 0 stars—would not recommend.