October 24, 1985
OK, so I began planning for tomorrow before I finished today. Now where am I? I sit in a bed with a broken clavicle. Prognosis? Not good. Three weeks before I can look at a bicycle.
The future? Where is the East Coast? Where’s Dallas? Will I ever ride there or am I bus-bound to Fayetteville?
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So here is the story.
From L.A., after having pizza with Matt, a friend from Kamp who is attending Fuller Seminary right now, John and I headed toward Fallbrook, where Kenny’s parents and grandfather live. John’s dad had known the grandfather when they were both in China.
After about 30 miles of city and 45 miles of farmland, we cruised into Lake Elsinore at about 5 in the evening. I slept quite well that night. It was perhaps the best sleep I had during the whole trip. It was a pretty state park, but had no biker/hiker section, which meant shelling out $8.50.
The next morning we set out a little slow, knowing that we only had about 35 to 40 miles to go to get to Fallbrook.
The day did not go well.
Coming into Temecula, a growing town of about 15,000 people, I was riding down a wide boulevard. As a result I wasn’t worrying too much about traffic approaching from behind. I had my head down looking at the map, trying to decide how far away we were from Fallbrook. Next thing I knew I was stumbling around in the street, dazed and unsure what had happened. I turned around and realized I had rear-ended a parked car and been thrown over the car. The bike was still at the back end. I had apparently hit my cheek on the back hatch of the car and flipped to land on my feet.
I made my way back to the bike. The front fork had been tweaked backwards from the force of the impact. As a result, I couldn’t turn the wheel. John, who had been ahead of me, figured out that something was wrong and came back.
Luckily, there was a bike shop a few blocks down. They didn’t have all the necessary parts [like a new fork], so they took mine out back and beat it back into shape. [I think the owner was afraid to let me watch. I was still a little dazed anyway.] Of course, anything that is beaten into shape is not in perfect shape. But it was ridable.
John riding up a hill near Fallbrook. |
I left with a bruised cheekbone and ego. From there we set out over the coastal range for Fallbrook, located in the heart of the hills. We made a wrong turn at the top of a hill and had to do some back tracking on very steep hills. Finally we were once again riding toward Fallbrook, following an old canyon road.
Coming across a cement ford, my wheels caught a skid of water about six feet across. The tires hydroplaned, the trailer pulled the rear wheel slightly off center, I lost control, the bike went down, my shoulder and knee hit, my eyes watched the sky and earth alternate position several times, and I finally came to a stop about fifty feet later.
I remember yelling three times: first as I was going over so John would not leave me behind; second when I hit the pavement; and, after I came to a stop, a third time just to make sure I was still alive. I did have some doubt.
John came back. I had pain all down my right side, from my shoulder to my calf. My collar bone felt broken. A man in a pickup stopped. He was headed toward Elsinore where there was a hospital. Another man stopped, a doctor from Nevada. He checked all my vital signs. I had felt some shock and dizziness when I stood, so I lay down.
The first man drove up out of the valley and phoned the family with whom we had planned to stay. They called a friend who lived near us, and he came to get us.
After an hour or so, somebody came and got me and took me to the hospital in Fallbrook. They shot X-rays of my shoulder. Yes, I had a broken right clavicle. A nurse came in to clean the asphalt out of my road rashes. She asked how I had gotten into the accident, and I told her I had been bicycling. She started washing out the cuts and scrapes with Betadine and realized that my thigh was a brick and said, “Oh, my, you have been bicycling!”
Afterward, Kenny’s family arrived and took me to their house, where John had already arrived. I’ve got a figure-eight brace that helps keep my shoulders back, but otherwise feel a great deal of pain. The doctor gave me Tylenol 3, but told me to try not to take it.
Charlie, Kenneth and John |
We stayed more than a week at the home of Kenny's grandfather, Kenneth, while I recuperated. The first night was terror. I couldn’t move without sending absurd pain through my shoulder. I lay flat on my back, and by morning, my legs were hyperextended because I had kept them flat to minimize pain. Now I couldn't bend them without all the drying road rash ripping apart again, and I couldn't leave them straight because of the hyperextension. I was miserable.
After about three days, I managed to shower myself, clothe myself and use the juicer to make fresh orange juice from oranges that I picked from the tree. The guy who had driven me to the hospital, as it turned out, was planning on driving to Chicago. He generously offered to carry our bikes if we would trade out driving duties. It was a long drive, but he dropped me at Springfield, where mom and dad were living, and then he took John on to St. Louis.
So ended the trip. I was back on the bicycle at the end of three weeks, but still very sore. I felt discomfort in the shoulder for nearly a year and couldn't sleep on that side for a long time. Today, my shoulder tells me when cold weather is coming.
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