Sometimes people make mistakes and then do immediate damage control to regain power and strength.
I like to take a problem and MULTIPLY it. No, really. Do you need proof? Game on!
This week blessed us with a taste of really gloriously perfect spring weather. I wanted nothing more than to hit the trails on my bike. Unfortunately, my riding buddies were busy being responsible adults. Against their recommendations and judgment, I decided that taking a nine mile trail ride alone would be perfectly fine as long as I sent the following text:
“FYI I’m starting my ride. If I go missing it means there were clowns*.”
*Clowns are evil and therefore are our term for all things dangerous and scary.
I rode hard and fast 5 miles into my favorite trail. My legs felt strong, my bike was smooth, the weather was great, and I was a bad ass. I turned around before the trail became a scary forest of danger and headed back to my truck. As I think about it now I see myself passing runners, walkers, an other cyclists.
I was in my groove. That trail was my “bitch.”
That trail said, “Bitch, you are MY bitch!”
My tire got caught just so in a rut in the pavement and I not only went down hard, but slid through the gravel as though I was playing in the major leagues and going for home plate in the World Series.
I did a quick glance around, nobody saw me. I checked the bike; everything was intact. WHEW! Then… oh dear GOD… then, I checked my leg… HAMBURGER! Blood and bodily fluids were starting to fill the jagged ruts carved into my leg by gravel. My elbow was flayed open and my palms were turning crimson (the last week I had gifted my gloves to my son, who outgrew his, and had yet to replace mine.)
Before reality set in I jumped back on the bike and calculated that I had 3 1/2 miles left to reach my vehicle. I can make it. I can do it. I am badass. I’m am starting to lose consciousness… I can’t breathe….
Remember the text I sent? I called my riding buddy and grunted, “I crashed, I’m about to pass out, talk to me.”
I’m pretty sure I was being lectured but I was too busy trying to focus on riding one-handed (slowly) while talking on the phone. Then I had to go “no hands” when another cyclist called me out for riding while on the phone, so I had to talk on the phone with one hand, flip him off with the other hand and gush blood down my leg into my sock simultaneously.
Fast forward through my
friend / bitch riding buddy meeting me and laughing while taking pictures of my road rash and I arrive at home to face the task of washing the dirt and gravel out of my raw flesh. I can’t do it. I’m bad-ass, not suicidal.
So, I self medicated with a really stiff Gin and Tonic… or two. AHHHH… that shower went so much better than expected. I barely felt the water flushing out the inner layers of my body, so far unseen in my lifetime.
Was it the alcohol? Was it peer pressure from hearing stories of professional “Brazilian Style” waxing? I’ll never know why I decided that my drunk and injured state was the right time to do some female landscaping. Blame it on blood loss. Blame it on the booze. Regardless of the blame, the facts are that I took a razor to my bikini line and it ended as well as my bike ride.
WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?
Let’s recap: I wiped out and got major road rash, used alcohol to numb the pain, then shaved my lady parts and drew more blood.
Funny right? The story should end here.
But it doesn’t.
What do you do with open wounds? You apply Triple-antibiotic ointment to lesson the chances of infection. Right?
What if it turns out that you suddenly have an allergic reaction to the ointment? Oh, I’ll tell you what happens. Here it is: Blood, puss, ooze, and now RED ITCHY BUMPS EVERYWHERE!
I’m betting that your week seems all kinds of lovely now by comparison. Right?