Three Months, oh my!

April 29th, my last update.

And today, almost exactly three months later, there are two weeks left before this internship ends.

I'm trying to spin these numbers, this anticipated and yet terrifying demarcation of time, into words that do service to what I feel as this ending looms.

But first, let me encapsulate the last three months for you:

- bike wreck kept me off the bike for TEN (binge-eating, self-loathing) WEEKS.

This may be surprising news, due to my rather cavalier relating of this tangle with gravity, but that's because it was a surprise for me too.

 Here are the events exactly as they transpired: I was on a group ride out of the shop right by my house, something I had been really, really looking forward to since I had just signed up for a huge race and was really craving getting into a good riding routine. 

The folks at the shop had been plenty nice, but there was a certain... condescension I felt from the guys, that is no doubt familiar to my fellow lady cyclists. The result was that I wanted to shred super hard on the ride-- like, my legs felt like they were on fire and I wanted to be in the front of the pack: not the middle, not chatting with the really nice but totally chill-pace keeping ladies, but IN THE FRONT. And I was! Until my ego caused a spectacular implosion in the sort of karmic retribution/lesson that seems to be an inevitability in my existence. 

Basically, while cranking as hard as possible after topping out on a ridge, there was a little dip with some rocks. To the right was a drainage ditch thing, with a steep 6 foot or so drop off, with more rocks. This is where my desire for... dominance? Respect from the local cadre of dudes? had far-reaching consequences, for while I am unsure exactly what caused it, in a split second, I was over my handle bars at the bottom of the drop off, tangled in my bike and contorted all crazily. The impact had been breath-taking enough that I remember thinking, for a second, that was bad. My immediate concern was that somebody had seen this mishap: after instinctively leaping up, disentangling myself, and frantically lugging my bike out of the ditch, I hopped back aboard and kept pedaling, without the next guy back catching me. The whole event, from crash to extraction, didn't take more than a minute. When I caught the leaders at the top of the next climb, they greeted me with concerned expressions: did you crash? Figuring they were being douchebags, I assured them that while I had, I was fine. 

Meanwhile, I began to feel little twinges of pain: my shins were sporting the beginnings of goose-eggs, and my neck and shoulders felt really tight. We had another 6 miles or so to go before returning to the cars, and I was irrationally rabid to keep riding. In fact, in a zany way, the crash emboldened me. I was at the very front of the pack for the next several descents, whipping my bike around corners and little rooty flights with a ferocity that even I felt, in a strangely detached way, vaguely impressed by. That's when I reached up to wipe sweat off my chin, and upon pulling my hand away, observed a prodigious quantity of blood all over my white gloves. Shit. I thought. Shit shit shit, because it was actually a lot of blood and I had wrecked miles ago. Had I been bleeding profusely out my face for twenty minutes unaware? Looking like a maniac? Deflecting questions of concern? 

When we crossed a road, I pulled up to a parked car and surveyed the damage. It was gross. There was a small yet deep crater of flesh missing from my chin, with the skin hanging down in a flap. It wasn't the most egregious wound in history, but I knew that it needed a stitch or two to close it up and avoid scarring. I finished the ride, and embarked on a frustrating tour of Little Rock's medical facilities as I attempted first urgent care centers (all closed!) before grudgingly trekking to the ER. There I sat for two hours, feeling like an asshole in a million ways (I brought fucking hummus and carrots to the ER since I didn't have time to eat before going) before realizing that, in a midsize city with a robust violent-crime rate, I would not be receiving "a stitch or two" in a timely manner. I went home, slathered it in antibacterial shit, and thought the whole wreck business was a wrap.

As it turns out, it was not. Basically, because of the showiness of the bloody chin action, I did not realize at the time of the wreck that I had hurt my left hand. It took days for me to process that my hand was not just sore, but actually injured. It can be best described, I guess, as a sort of soft tissue injury that only time off the bike can heal. I was incredibly frustrated, and kept prematurely trying to ride-- there was definite cognitive dissonance between my hand looking okay and feeling mostly okay, and then trying to ride and being in pain. I didn't go to the doctor (which may or may not have been smart, who knows) because I had enough mobility that I knew nothing was broken. However, the place of the injury (right where the hand, thumb, and wrist converge) meant that until it was healed, mountain biking was off the table.

After about ten weeks off, I finally felt okay to ride a little over a month ago. I feel like a brat when I say it's been hard, because in the scheme of things, I know this was a nothing injury. I know plenty of friends who have suffered injuries that required painful surgery, and multi-months of bike-less heal time. What I went through is pathetic in comparison. But, it has opened my eyes to just how dependent upon riding I have become for my wellness. Physical, mental. Balance. And how difficult it was to be without it. I am trying to approach my health with gratitude, and view riding for what an insane privilege it is-- something not to be taken for granted, but to be respected, cultivated, and treasured.

- wrote more things for the Arkansas Times and the Oxford American's website

- begun building a personal website (including a super fruitful photo shoot where I look baked in nearly ever shot).

Exhibit A.

- obtained an iPhone and got an Instagram

What's next has been giving me heart palpitations. I really don't know, is the truth. 

Better left for another entry.

But I am alive and shall endeavor to refrain from such prolonged bouts of radio silence.

xo

M