Learning To Love You More




Assignment #11
Photograph a scar and write about it.

Nicholas Riddle
Santa Cruz, California USA



On a trip back to the East coast for my brother-in-law's wedding, I thought it would be a good idea to take my bike along and slip in a few rides with my friend, Fuzzy.╩ 2 hours off the plane, we are suited up, on our bikes, having a blast on the trails.╩ After a few hours of elbowing each other into corners and cutting each other off, Fuzzy said, "Let's hit that jump one more time, and I'll race you back to the car.╩ I got a 6 pack of Guinness."
I jumped in front for one more loop around.╩ As I came up to the jump, I thought I would give it a little something extra this time, just to show off.╩ (I was going to beat him back to the car, anyway.)╩ Somehow something went wrong. I don't remember hitting the tree, but apparently that's what happened. What I do remember, is that bastard Fuzzy landing right on top off me just as I had slid to a halt. At this point, I've got the wind knocked out of me, bikes everywhere, helmet is broken and there's a stick in my knee. I reached down, halfway concious and pulled the stick out of my knee and tried to get up. With blackness closing in, I eased myself back down, in too much pain to try to breath or anything. In fact, all I could get out was this pathetic little whimper, not a manly growl any self respecting man would want to roar when in pain. No, a whimper as I dragged myself somewhere, anywhere but where I was hurting. Fuzzy gets up, sees that I'm in a bad way and runs to get the car. I pull myself up against a chainlink fence where I try to breathe to stay concious. I'm convinced I ruptured all my internal organs. Nothing should hurt this much.
So, there I was, bleeding, barely concious, thinking this was my last waking moments, when this old fella comes along and asks if I'm alright. I think I may have nodded. I don't remember. He seemed to have been under the impression that I needed a friend right then, not medical assistance, so he stands there and starts telling stories about how he remembered these trails as a boy 60-damn years ago. I can't breath, I'm in serious pain, I keep trying to pass out and I'm thinking this is it. I'm going to die and this clown is here telling me stories.
Thankfully, Fuzzy shows up with the car, ripping through the woods in his old Saab to rescue me. He chases the old man off as politely as he could, which I don't imagine to be too polite as he was pretty hurt as well. And with that, we were off to the hospital.
Three days, countless stitches, a pair of crutches╩and a jar of Vicadin later, I had to be escorted down the aisle at my brother-in-law's wedding to my seat by my wife's 80-year old grandmother, who'd just had hip replacement surgery.
Fuzzy and I have since made up for those lost Guinness' many times over.