My first crash

Something like this...

Or rather, not my first crash - seeing as I hit nothing other than tarmac. More 'my first spill' then, though that word sounds a little frivolous, as if it were an amusing inconvenience. The French, of course, have a lovely word for it - une chute - but I'm no Francophone. I don't know - what would you call it?

I'll try to tell you what happened: taking a short descent through a village (hastily, but not superfast), I braked to take a left turn, only to introduce my face to the tarmac a second later. It's hard to describe the precise sensation: it was as if the bike just disappeared from under me. I flew over the bars superman-style to flop on the ground with thwacking finality, face-first. Actually, chest-first describes it better, as my torso bore the brunt; I did leave some of my face on the road, but my helmet saved me from more serious head injury (and, incidentally, my cycling mitts kept my hands free of grazes too).

Then what? The next thing I know I'm loudly sucking air, making a repeated 'hurrrr' sound, as if theatrically registering fright over and over again. I can't speak to answer the kindly chap who has jogged over to my aid. Two women, whose chat I have interrupted, ask casually if someone needs to ring an ambulance. Still incommunicado, I signal 'no' with a wave of the hand and vigorous head-shaking; on all-fours now, I carry out a spontaneous limb audit and figure that nothing seems broken. The overwhelming pain is coming from my chest.

Helmets: worth wearing

After re-inflating my lungs, my benefactor - I never learn his name - offers me a cup of tea. I stagger to my feet, pick up my bike - seemingly undamaged, though the chain has come off - follow my new friend to his home and accept a glass of water to steady my nerves. He tells me that I've "fucked up my face a bit" - never good words to hear - and directs me to look in a mirror. Indeed, the right side of my face is blackened from the tarmac, though the blood trickling down my cheek from eyebrow offers a pleasing contrast.

Now, I know from reading autobigraphies of professional wrestlers that the eyebrow is quite easily 'busted open', so I discount serious injury there and ask for some kitchen roll to stem the flow. I can also spot a nasty bruise on my cheekbone, which will expand roughly to the size of a quail's egg. But it looks much worse than it is. Minor cuts and bruises elsewhere are revealed during the Bates-Motel shower I take after shakily cycling the two miles back to the cottage I'm staying at.

(Oh yeah, this is in North Wales. Sorry - one post in, and I've already strayed from my Mancunian remit)

The long-term damage is to the ribcage. I've self-diagnosed myself as having bruised ribs, as my google research (and, to be fair, NHS Direct) tells me that I have all the symptons: most notably pain when breathing and moving around. Coughing, stretching, laughing and big hugs are strictly to be avoided; sneezing feels like what I imagine it feels like to be stabbed in the kidney, i.e. sharp and excruciating. Sadly ribs - whether bruised, cracked or fractured - have to be pretty much left to heal by themselves. Which means I've got around four weeks of pain and difficult sleeping ahead. Oh well.

Yer ribs: handle with care

So, yesterday I came back to south Manchester by train with my tail between my legs; I was planning to return as I arrived - by bike - but the prospect of 100 miles of wheezing, painful discomfort, not to mention still feeling pretty shaken , made the trip too awful to contemplate. Nor have I, a couple of days post-crash, reinstated any feelings of trust in my bike. Actually, I feel a little betrayed: I'd only had it serviced a couple of weeks previous, equipping it with a new chain and cassette to boot. So the commute's off the cards for a week or so too.

But... I'm sure I'll be back on it soon. In fact, achieving two milestones over the same weekend - my first century ride and my first serious accident - have made me feel even more of a 'cyclist', as opposed to a mere cycling commuter; a gutter bunny. Of course, one can't simply be a cyclist, he or she must belong to a tribe - the roadies, the trendy fixies, the MTB-ers or whatever - but I'm on the threshold. I've sat on the monastery steps for a year to prove my worthiness.

Lets see where we go from here.