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Boston Marathon - April 2012 |
 Jen and I drove Betsy to her place in Cambridge to pick up her bike and gear--we then headed for the Cambridgeport Star Market and provisions. Jen excelled at this task as she does at all tasks, carrying more than her body mass in ice down two flights of steps to the waiting minivan. Betsy beat us to Framingham, where we made Base Camp and managed to get to sleep a bit before midnight. The Monday morning plan had Betsy and Jen driving west to Cordaville (if you're from MA and know where Cordaville is, you're probably lying) for a 3.7 mile ride down to Hopkinton Center. I was to drop my van and a Marine Company's worth of food and drink at the top of Heartbreak Hill, where I'd meet Bruce for the 21 mile jaunt out to meet the women. Amazingly, these plans all worked out perfectly (if you can call my waking at 4:30 and the women 30 minutes later "perfect"). Along the way to Hopkinton (and by plan), Bruce and I connected up with Phil in Newton and then Marc, Jim, and Cynthia in Wellesley at Peet's. Along with hundred if not thousands of other riders, we made good time to Hopkinton for the 7:15am turnaround and "The Chase" (Bruce's and my effort to catch Jen and Betsy, who had departed around 6:55am). We zipped east down the hill to the Ashland line, then made our way uneventfully to Wellesley College where we connected with Betsy and Jen. By this time, Elden and Lisa were most likely enjoying their Finagle a Bagel aboard the runner's bus from downtown to Hopkinton. Cynthia, Jim, Marc, and Phil stopped at Peet's for coffee and to let the roads clear of cars. Not minding the cars so much, Bruce, Jen, Betsy, and I pushed on to the downslope out of Wellesley at the Newton line just west of Route 128. In retrospect, I like Peet's, and should have paused for a pitstop. A bit before Papa Razzi, I was in the lead at the right of the road at or just behind a car to my left. This would have been fine had said car not opted to make a right into a parking lot. I'm fairly certain that the sequence of events that followed was my yelling (not Eldenscreaming), sheet metal/handlebar/left hip contacting, tumbling, asphalting, thinking about whether/hoping that my bike was okay, breathing a sigh of relief that my new helmet and its older contents hadn't hit the ground, sitting up, and wondering why my right shoulder no longer felt like my left shoulder. The car graciously pulled around rather than over me into the parking lot. Before the driver could reach me, another man announced himself as a trauma surgeon and asked if I might be in need of assistance. I thanked him but said that I thought I was okay (note to self: doctor's tend to know more than you do). The driver was profusely apologetic, which was nice since it was more bad luck than bad driving. I've concluded that it's never the right time to be in the wrong place if that wrong place is your bike being co-located with a motor vehicle. Fortune was smiling on me this day--the car that hit me was a Prius (its silent mode not having been a contributor). Not clear if it was totaled. I inventoried my bike--carbon fiber frame, fork, and wheels all performed exactly as they should when cushioned from impact by 165 pounds of humanity: pristine condition (the former, not the latter). (That said, it's been suggested that I have a bike shop take a look, which I plan to do when ... oh, look, a margarita.) I did have to put my chain back on, and I noticed (but didn't act on) the fact that the red lens from my rear light was lying separate on the ground. The parking lot happened to be that of a Taylor Rental. After I declined the discount on a dozen round tables and 96 folding chairs for next weekend, they offered me some handi-wipes to clean the chain grease off. (A question: how does oil turn to grease, since it's the former I apply every few rides and the latter that gets on the furniture?) At this point, I felt fine to carry on. We were only a few miles from the van at the top of Heartbreak Hill and only a few more than that to the race finish line on Boylston Street. After crossing Route 128, Newton-Wellesley Hospital and better judgment came into view. I insisted that the rest of the group continue while I checked out the emergency room (my second visit there, the first having come decades ago when an 11pm indoor soccer game in Revere and a bone in my wrist didn't see eye to eye). I don't know the exact time, but I'm guessing it was between 8:30am and 9:00am. The reception team agreed to look after my bike while a nurse shot some x-rays (she wouldn't use the otherwise idle machine to check my bike, I must report, but the care was otherwise outstanding). I was then led to an exam room. That's when the pain really kicked in. You see, there was a TV high on the wall showing ABC morning programming, and the remote was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, it wasn't too long before I was seen by a doctor. He informed me that I had a Grade 3 caveat emptor diem (my Latin is a bit rusty), which translates to a separated shoulder (with the benefit of my hospital "report card:" acromio clavicular separation, which sounds to me more like a Harry Potter spell). No surgery needed, and if I choose to mirror the incident on my left shoulder, I'll be symmetric again. I asked when I'd be able to ride. The doctor said that the pain should be gone and the range of motion back in about 4 weeks. Since that wasn't the question I'd asked, I repeated it. His answer, translated to Polite-ese, was something along the lines of, "As soon as you're foolish enough to give it a try." So, I gulped down the ibuprofen the nurse offered, strapped on the sling, snapped my helmet buckle, exited the building, and saddled up. My 9:30am worries that the road was now closed for the race came to nothing, so off I went. It was my good fortune that as I turned right onto Route 16, I tucked in behind a pair of motorcycle officers who escorted me (technically, I don't think they knew I was behind them) down 16 to the right onto Commonwealth Ave and most of the way through the rolling hills and up Heartbreak Hill to the Advance Camp fBIKE Direct tent that the scout team had established. Said team was on its way back from the finish line and joined me shortly thereafter. We unloaded the rest of the car and set up to watch the real athletes roll and run by. The shade was great, the food and drinks were cold, and the spectator energy was buzzing. And, I was thrilled when Betsy handed me the red plastic lens cover from my bike--it was back to the same condition when we started! We received text alerts about the progress of Elden, Lisa, and a handful of non-celebrity runners that kept us apprised of their position on the course. When they reached the 30k mark about 3 miles downhill from us, we jumped into motion to prepare gel packs, a Coke (for Elden), and Mountain Dew (the elixir of life, for Lisa). They shortly came into view looking a lot fresher than 21 miles in mid 80s temperatures should have had them looking. We snapped some pictures (pic 201), taped a "Kick Me" sign to the back of Elden's 2012 FatCyclist.com Tech T, and sent them on to their finish line reward (which is at least slightly different than their final reward). Great day in great company, and that includes the fantastic staff at Newton-Wellesley Hospital. Postscript: Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the hole in my Twin Six Fat Cyclist jersey pointed out by Jen did NOT correspond, as I had imagined, to where my shoulder impacted the ground, but rather, to the pocket where my phenomenal Panasonic Lumix DMC-ZS5 camera was stored. As the photo below shows, the jersey tear, camera bag tear, and lens shape correspond remarkably to one another. The damage was so minimal that I (a) didn't notice it until this morning and (b) was able to keep shooting pictures the rest of the day. Now, if only I'd had my Contour GPS helmet camera on and recording during the altercation ... 
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