How to Injure a Shoulder

I heard the guy’s back wheel pop, and then he and his bike started sliding down the track’s surface. I could tell that his slide was perfectly timed to hit me, which was pretty annoying considering it wasn’t even a race and I’d only ridden a lap or two. At least let me get in a workout here, buddy!

I was riding in the sprinter’s lane at a decent clip in an effort to catch the paceline which was forming a half track ahead, but I wasn’t killing myself. I’d estimate my speed in the 25mph range or so, which isn’t very fast until you’re forced to reduce that to zero miles per hour using only your skin. My front wheel stuck into the heap of my fellow rider and his bike and I performed my Superman impression.

I am, I am, I am Superman!

My head cracked on the ground with what I remember to be gunshot volume. It probably wasn’t as loud for anyone else, but for me it was loud. Whatever the case, I crashed off a bike onto my head for the second time in my life and I was again glad to be wearing a helmet. I lay gasping on the track’s apron like a caught fish for a bit and my friends and fellow riders stopped over to check on me. I could already tell that something was up in Shoulder Town.

You know when you have a respectable injury, your body lets you know by making that whole area kind of go on alert? I didn’t even have to reach back or look at my shoulder. I knew it was jacked up. My friends asked if I wanted an ambulance or if I wanted someone to drive me, and I figured I could save a few thousand bucks by getting a lift, so my friend Stephen Touset was kind enough to drive me into the city.

I was in a hurry to stand up and get moving toward the hospital because I knew that once I was past the adrenaline/endorphin stage of the injury, things were going to get hurty. We headed that way but I didn’t think it was necessary to go nuts on the speed so we just drove normally. Unfortunately, once at Atlanta Medical Center, Stephen bent his brand new sweet-ass Kazane track bike while trying to park my car in the parking garage. Damn it, where’s the luck?

Hospital Time is Fun Time

I went into the Emergency room shivering a bit and generally kind of being a guy in a mild state of shock. The admitting nurse could tell that I was not having a unicorns and rainbows kind of day.

“The only problem is,” she said, “We have a really long wait tonight.”

I tried to look relaxed and shivered some. She looked thoughtful.

“Tell you what,” she continued, “I’m gonna open that door over there in just a minute and you are going to walk through it.”

“Where should I be until then?” I asked.

“Right there.”

Soon I looked around and a door opened. I went through it and was alone in a hallway for a while with a very disinterested security guard looking at me as a child might regard a math test. The nurse was nowhere to be seen. I read a poster on a wall and forgot what it said as I was reading it. After a bit my nurse returned and led me to my ER room.

Instant 4AM

Then a lot of waiting happened. A guy put a needle in my arm and attached a groovy bag to it via a hose. Then he hit me with some morphine and that stuff is no joke. My friend Mellie was standing by and remarked that I “Instantly went to 4am Hodgie.” I cannot for the life of me imagine what she meant by that.

I got x-rayed, felt up, and advised over the course of a couple of hours. I let Cheryl, my sister, and my dad all know that I was banged up and looking for some sympathy and they were all interested to hear of it. Made a few snarky one-handed Twitter and Facebook posts to pass the time. My friends Sam and Melissa came to see me.

Mellie yelled at me to “stop texting with broken bones.”

After a while, the orthopedic doctor came around to have a chat. He tickled my feet.

“Does this feel weird?” he asked.

“Other than the fact that a dude is tickling my feet?”

Diagnosis: Jacked up

He said that I had made a mess of the ligaments that hold my clavicle into my shoulder and that the clavicle had sproinged out of its normal resting place as a result. He called it a Type III AC Separation. He said I may need to have someone slice me open and put in a screw or two.

After a while I was finally let out and my friends and I headed off home. On the way home I called Atkins Park, a great bar in my neighborhood, to ask if they were still serving food. The bartender identified herself as Miriam.

“Hey are you still serving food?” I asked her.

“Yep! Kitchen’s open till 2AM.”

“Ah, perfect. I just got out of the Emergency Room and I’m dying for a cheeseburger.”

Miriam said a very unladylike word, paused, and then continued, “Well, get your crippled ass up here, then!”

And that is one reason why I love Atkins Park.

All things considered I am fine. I didn’t injure my precious face of which I am unduly proud, and reports are that my bike is in OK shape. It remains to be seen whether I’ll have to get surgery or not. There is talk of inserting metal plates, so that should be fun times.

I just hope I can get back on the bike before too long.