accident (noun) - a sudden event that is not planned or intended (because maybe you were doing something you've done a million times before) that may cause damage or injury

“Eric,” I asked the other day as we were driving along a twisting mountain road under a spring green tree-tunnel, “When you look at something, or someone, what are you seeing?”

Understandably, he was a little confused by my question. “What do you mean?”

We crested a hill, and for a moment I was distracted by the view: layers of blue mountains backed by a sky that was (quite literally) glowing pink and yellow. But then the trees closed in, and I tried to clarify.

“What sort of ‘lens’ do you look at the world through? Like me, I see stories everywhere: in people, in settings, etc. What about you?”

He was quiet for a bit, thinking it through before he answered. “Well, I always want to know how stuff works.”

That, if you know my boy, makes perfect sense. And if you know me, it’s probably pretty obvious that I see stories everywhere… which is why I just have to tell this one. Even though it wasn’t/isn’t much fun to go through firsthand, the writer in me was watching from some back corner of my mind, fingers itching to wrap it up in a web of spider-silk words.

So I did just that.

~*~

Today. Today is summer in earnest.  A perfect, blue-skied day. Not only is it the ideal temperature—not too hot, not too cold—but it is the beginning of a four-day weekend, which adds a sweetness to the day that makes the sunshine that much brighter... perfect for a bike ride. After we pull up to the trailhead, it isn’t long before we we’re clipping cleats into pedals and pushing off. Gravel crunches under our tires, soon changing to smooth, packed dirt, and then we come to a fork in the trail.

“What should we ride today?” Eric asked. I pause, considering. There are the old favorites: Here to There, 107, Ridgeline. Or we could start off on an easy one, like Peapod. “We’ve got plenty of time, today,” Eric adds. “Wanna do Backstretch?”

“Sure!” I say, grinning. That’s one we don’t often do, because (as the name implies) it’s a bit of a hike to get there from the trailhead. So if we’re short on time, we generally opt for something closer. But it’s the middle of the afternoon on the first day of a long weekend: we have all the time in the world. The leaves above our heads laugh breathlessly as we rattle along the rocks and roots that this trail network is known for. We make a few wrong turns, and once or twice I have to get off my bike and walk over a particularly difficult obstacle, so when we finally reach the section of trail known as the Backstretch, we’ve been riding for about an hour.

As usual, Eric takes off. I go a little slower, a little more cautiously, but still fast enough to draw out a few exhilarated whoops. Up ahead, I hear the rattle of bike chain against chainstay, telling me that Eric has just hit a rough patch. I round the corner, hoisting my tires up over a log, and peer ahead to see what caused it.

Ah, another rock bridge. I forgot this one was out here!

There are several of these obstacles in this network of trails: places where the trail crosses a ditch or curves around the side of a hill, and rather than dig into the hill or build a wooden bridge, the builders just lined up a bunch of stones.

They’re a little bouncy to ride across, but most of them are wide enough so that the biggest hurdle is mental: the fear of falling. This particular bridge is one I’ve conquered many times over, but it still amazes me sometimes, the things you can ride a bike on.

This is just so crazy, I think to myself as I pick out the smoothest line to follow over the rocks. I’m two thirds of the way over when I take my eyes off to look ahead to the next obstacle: a short climb and a curve, with a lattice of tree roots over the dirt path. But that one glance is all it takes.

 It feels like the back tire of my bike bucks, but maybe my front tire catches in a crack between rocks: I don’t know. But I do know that the rocky creek bed two-ish feet below is not a good place to land when my bike decides to spill me. And I know now that smacking my shin hard enough on the pointy edge of a rock means I am in for a lot of pain, even if I don’t break a bone.

I roll, somehow ending up on my back and half-under my bike. Eric must have heard me crash, because he is there almost before I start hollering for him, grabbing my bike off me and tossing it aside. He keeps asking me if I am okay, and I kept telling him I am. But since those words are choked out through big, ugly sobs, I don’t think he buys it.

Somehow, I get out of the creek bed and back on the bridge. Once I stop feeling like I’m either going to throw up or pass out, we do the best we can to wash off the blood with water squirted from our Camelbaks. But this isn’t just a skinned knee that will be okay with a Band-Aid and some Neosporin: it needs some serious cleaning up.

(Here's a nice picture that shows the pretty forest and none of the gross stuff.)

(Here's a badass picture that shows the gross stuff.)

There’s no way I can ride, so Eric and I walk the three miles back to the trailhead, pushing our bikes alongside us. It’s slow going, and once we reach the car it’s a 40-min drive back home (plus a stop at Stewart's, because what is better than ice cream to make you feel better?). We do the best we can to clean and bandage things up at home, but my whole shin and ankle are swelling up, and the cuts are deep and still bleeding, so the evening finds us waiting in a little room in Urgent Care.

“Nice job on the bandages,” the nurse comments, and Eric grins at me: they are his handiwork.

“So you fell off your bike?” the doctor asks, checking his clipboard. 

“Yup.” I say. “Landed on some rocks.”

“Were you mountain biking?” He sits down and rolls his chair over, picking up my leg and leaning closer to inspect the cuts.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I fell off a rock bridge.”

“Cool!” he says, and I raise my eyebrows: this is definitely not the “you should be more careful” scolding I was expecting. “Where were you guys?”

“The SMBA trails off Daniel’s Road in Saratoga,” Eric pipes up. 

The doctor grins. “I’ve never been there. Is it good riding?”

We describe it to him, and he fills us in on some of his favorite trails in the area. After about five minutes of this, he remembers what we’re here for.

“Okay,” he says, “So this is what we’d call a deep skin avulsion—”

“A-what?” I interrupt.

“Avulsion. It means you left some Kate out on the trail, so we can’t really stitch this up. The best you can do is keep it clean and covered, and ice it for the swelling.”

“Oh,” I say. “Got it.”

“You’ll have some pretty bruises for a while,” he tells me, setting my leg down carefully. “But nothing is broken, or you wouldn’t have been able to walk. Just watch for signs of infection: redness, streaking….” This grosses me out, so I stop listening, thankful that Eric is here to pay attention. Before the door closes behind him, though, he calls one last thing back to us.

“Thanks for the trail info!”

Eric and I both laugh, and then I finish up the paperwork they give me. As we hobble out to the car (well, I hobble; Eric walks normally) Eric scans the handouts they sent home with us.

“Care instructions… info on avulsions… hey!” he says, showing me one of the papers. “You’re in the same category as a gunshot wound!”

I roll my eyes, but I am already figuring how I’m going to write about this later.

~*~