You Can Have All of Mine, Really

My newly revised faceOK, so I “came off my bike” this afternoon.

Yeah, you can believe me on this: This is not something you want. You can die from this. Even if you just get your bell rung, you still don’t want it.

So, how did this happen, you’re asking. Well, very, very quickly, in fact.  “It all happened so fast!” Heard that one before?  Here it is again, for your delectation. Take it for what you will.  But as to the facts at hand, I was returning from a routine bike ride, one I take every day or so, and as I have done countless times before, I turned into my peaceful little cul-de-sac. Apropos to the topic, the entrance to my street has been furnished with an unnecessary extra divot–somebody’s idea of a way to channel storm runoff alongside a piece of road that already sports a generous existing grade. This makes such a feature altogether superfluous (and in my case, at least a little dangerous). Anyway, when I hit this divot, carrying, perhaps, a bit of exuberant, excess speed, the rubber grip on the right handlebar slipped off, leaving me somewhat in the lurch.

Regardless, the aforementioned combination of mechanical and engineering failures put me in rather immediate contact with the unforgiving asphalt. I’d estimate that less than a second elapsed between hitting the bump and hitting the pavement. That’s not a lot of time to do any planning or prognostication, oh my bruvvers. That’s not even enough time to take a deep breath and get ready for all that you are about to suffer. It’s basically just a blur through which one traverses and tries to do the best one can under the somewhat impromptu circumstances.

A brief, subsequent, anatomical inventory provided a retrospective account of the events that transpired with, shall we say, a smattering of indeliberate haste. Said inventory was informative, however, providing insights into what may have transpired in that split instant, such as the following:

  • I had hit the pavement (did I mention it was unforgiving?) with the knuckles, and palms, of both hands, therefore leading me to assume that I must have bounced at least once.
  • I also, apparently, made contact with the big toe of my left foot. Good thing I was wearing sensible shoes. Good safety tip, that.
  • As to the evidence of contact on my right shoulder, there was a rather prominent tear in my T-shirt, and a corresponding raspberry spread gooily on said shoulder’s apex.
  • I won’t go into detail as to the state of the various knees and elbows; they have seen this territory before and were well prepared to revisit it. Let’s just say, however, that they had to cowboy up considerably to make the grade in this instance, forebearance-wise.


* Having been a victim of a little of the old ultraviolence, I am channeling Alex, from A Clockwork Orange.

The helmet called for by any number of forward-thinking, rational experts on the subject may have, however, been somewhat lacking on said particular occasion. I doubt it would have done much good with the injuries heretofore related. Road rash has few preventive measures, once one has begun one’s earthward slide. To reuse an overused statement, “It is what it is.” I doubt, even, that a helmet would even have helped with the face.

Oh, did I neglect to mention the face in the previous inventory? Suffice it to say that, biomechanically speaking, it probably was the last thing to hit the pavement. But sometimes the best is saved for last, oh my brothers, and at the present moment, it is a thing of absolute glory. Were I to need to focus on anything in particular, I might well channel Rocky and say, “Cut me, Mick!” I might also relate that the frikkin’ thing is still oozing seven hours after the aforementioned traumatic event. I got the chin, the lip, and the cheekbone, all in one grand smash.

I gotta say, the cold evidence, and not any lingering pridefulness, leads me to conclude that my bone density must be right in line with the acceptable standards since the structural integrity of the entire physiognomy seems to have survived intact. The teeth, though they made their way through major portions of my upper lip, emerged unscathed. One is endlessly grateful for the silver lining there. There was, however, a certain amount of concern, in the aftermath, for one’s zygomatic arch, since the application of said physiognomy to said pavement was occasioned with a certain amount of “crunching” sent directly through the skull to the minute bones of the inner ear. One fully expected to see at least some slight denting in the cheekbone area, but happily, none was found. One did find, however, a more-than-slight facial laceration in the same area, along with the expected contusions and swelling.

This was a cause for concern for one’s spouse. I should mention here that she is a physician. She advised a trip to the local hospital’s Emergency Room, but she, above all, should know what awaited me there. It was, after all, a Saturday night in early July. She was concerned that a facial lac would leave a scar. I wonder, since the new crop of residents start work July 1, what the fresh-faced, newly minted ER residents would have left me by way of anything much better. This would, after all, be, what, their second night on call? This is like going to a randomly selected, overly confident middle school student and saying, “Hook me up with some professional plastic surgery, my fine plastic surgery vendor.” I’m thinking I could do better at home with a safety pin and some dental floss.

The aforementioned spouse certainly should know better, having been through residency once herself, years ago. If you’re thinking that the recollection could be getting hazy for her, let me hasten to point out that she is just now beginning the process for a second time in another specialty even as we speak.

I mean, what is she even talking about? If I need stitches, believe me, it can wait until I can get in touch with someone who has at least done it once or twice before, y’know? I teach in the public schools; I am not prepared to let Britney or Jayson practice on my face, OK? This is not vanity; this is just plain common sense.

Anyway, a tortured sleep awaits me. It should be so fun. I shall lie there frozen, supine, since this is the only uninjured surface on my body. I shall, in the meantime, be leaking serum from about 20 wounds on the front of my body. I have already, in my mind, sacrificed the sheets. This is why I work–so that I can buy things and replace things as needed. I give it not a second thought–the financial end, that is. The painful, sticking-to-the-sheets part, well, that’s another matter altogether. It is almost 2:30 a.m., though. I must go now and do the best I can.

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