Pretty concise and snappy title eh? Yes I do have a life outside Mountain Biking. No, it’s no better written or researched.
Oh I bet you throught this was going to be another pithy post railing against the dark, dank arse of London that houses our aging tube system. But no, it’s something far more amusing.
This site is great if you want some politically incorrect songs sniping at all sorts of things. But my personal favourite is “The London Underground Song”
I warn you now, this is not work safe, not at all. So if you’re in an open office, headphones are mandatory unless your job isn’t 🙂
In the last five years, Mountain Biking has taken me to many special places. Almost none of these include prolonged stays in hospital. Oh I’ve crashed a lot, escaped painful injury through a combination of lady luck and body armour while ferrying/carrying/laughing at those unfortunates who have collected scars, plaster casts and hospital food as badges of honour.
Of course it’ll never happen to me. I’m too busy/nesh/careful to have an accident requiring hospitalisation. Especially on a day I’d no intention to ride. Realistically hammering a nail through an unsuspecting finger or receiving a paint based toxicology injury were far more likely. Yep, that was me, rebel with a paintbrush.
What follows is chronologically romp through the low and lower points of the following four days. Please don’t misunderstand me here; I’ve not edited out the high points; there just weren’t any.
Sunday
15:30
Received pleading text message from Andy desperate for a beer with a pre-ride chaser. The happy discovery that my slapdash “chuck it at the fence and see what sticks” painting technique had exhausted our paint supplies, created a window of opportunity through which I joyfully jumped and headed out to the trails.
16:30
Since riding was cutting deep into our drinking time, we raced sun baked dusty trails serially excusing piss poor performance through pointlessly high corner entry speeds, poor line choice and fitness grown fat on summer beer. Kicking dust motes skywards silhouetted against a falling sun, we revelled in the rock hard ground – riding fast and loose on trails cartographed into my mind and hard wired into my muscles.
Much much more fun than anything with a paintbrush.
Heading pubwards on a cheeky evening bridleway with only the sound of Andy’s chattering forks inches from my rear tyre for company, the off camber, steep sided flinty trail was treated with lofty disdain which familiarity breeds. I mean this is the benign Chilterns for God’s sake, there’s nothing dangerous here and there is no way I’m letting the old fat fella get past me. Bragging rights over a cold beer await.
16:31
Oh dear. I appear to have crashed rather badly.
16:33
Andy, fellow professional northerner and trained first aider, took a look at the damage while pointedly ignoring my whimpering. The knee looked dreadful but didn’t hurt much. Well not as much as a wrist to shoulder wound filled with trail dirt and seasoned heavily with AB rhesus positive. And my shoulders were spasming amusingly not due to the original crash rather Andy’s riderless bike smashing into them while I lie prone and winded. Talk about adding insult to injury – the insult was “fucking hell, aren’t I suffering enough?”
16:35
“Tha’ll be needing to get that to ‘ospital lad” Andy offered while pouring cold water into open wounds and fashioning bandages from handkerchiefs. “Can tha ride?” he asked followed by a scratch of the chin and a reflective “Tha’d better be able to cause its fooking miles back t’car”” Who could refuse such an offer as that?
It wasn”t that bad actually as long as I didn’t look at it. Other trail users looked aghast as flaps of skin spitting blood were accompanied by a cheery “nothing to worry about, a mere flesh wound“. Adrenalin is a fine pain killer, it just doesn’t last very long.
16:50
It lasted long enough for Andy to drive me to hospital and to be gently prodded by the triage nurse. “How did you do this then?” she innocently enquired to which I couldn’t help but reply “Badly executed throw at the All-Chiltern Herring Chucking Contest” which earned me a tighter bandage that I would otherwise expected. I’m assuming this was also the reason she spurned my offer to clean up my arm during the expected two hour wait to be treated. Instead I took her advice that “somebody who knows what they’re doing should sort that for you” and watch it form a painful crust infused with bits of tree and rock.
17:30
My knee hurts now. Andy’s taken the car and bikes and my wife and kids’ll be back soon. I feel like an idiot. I also feel like some strong painkillers would be in order. Still the thought of a couple of medicinal Scotches post stitching keeps my spirits up.
18:30
Amazing I mused. Apparently we’ve put twice as much money into the NHS over the last seven years than during the previous period. Is it just me wondering where all the bloody money went? The magazine collection kept me amused if not interested. Aside from the thousand facsimiles of Womans Weekly – content “10 ways to get thin this summer”, “Why Men are Bastards” and “Asparagus – the forgotten vegetable” – I was left with those bastions of the hospital circuit “Coarse Fishing” and “What Caravan“” (answer NONE).
Alternating a page of each which is quite amusing in a “Who the hell leaves this stuff here?” way. Why no playboy even with the pages stuck together? I’m building a theory that old magazines never die, they just shuffle off into a parallel waiting room existence. Go on, try and and find “Carp World incorporating who gives a fuck” in any proper retailer. Never going to happen.
18:50
Finally called with a few others to the “Minor Injuries Unit“. Minor Injury, excuse me I don’t want to go all Tony Hancock on you here but I’ve almost lost a leg. Wife and Kids turn up wanting to see the damage – find pissed off dad/husband wanting to get this over with and go home. Sweaty, tired and in a bit of pain but mostly playing it back through my mind – how did I fall off there right on my doorstep. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
19:30
Still here. Still not been seen. Lots of ill looking people. Want to be out of here more than almost anything. One child accidentally knocks bloody knee. Consider adoption.
19:50
“Oh that’s pretty bad, we may need to keep you in” was the initial assessment of a rather jolly nurse called Peter. Nurse? Bloke? Is it just me? Anyway, the Doctor on call is a bit busy so they’ll send me to X-Ray just in case there’s bone floating about in there. Suddenly this has got a little serious. Keep me in? Jesus, that was like meeting the grim reaper down the pub. Talk about unexpected and scary.
20:00
Arrive at X-Ray. Radiologist is in theatre dealing with an emergency. That’s not me then. I spend some quality time counting bricks in a wall and reading how Kylie conquered breast cancer. Think she probably didn’t have to deal with the NHS, shame a bit of a sing song would cheer the “Non X-Ray’d 4″ up no end. My three companions are in various states of dress and physical fitness. Between us there’s probably one healthy body. Hope no one gets my liver.
20:30
Pontificating on whether I could pay BUPA to pick me up and pamper me senseless even if I have to mortgage the house. Knee swollen and painful, arm not really any use as the blood/scar tissue have set solid. Mind on a loop “stupid, stupid, stupid“
20:45
Hot Spare Radiologist arrives. Hurray! Two other cases more important than me and since once is strapped to a spinal board and the other is a young women in serious finger pain (having dislocated said digit prodding her boyfriend – man he’s trying hard not to piss himself laughing), I can hardly complain.
21:10
Third case more important. Irritatingly tap non injured leg and barely contain urge to scream at someone.
21:30
“Can you lay you knee flat?” “oooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwww ohfuckohfuckno” “okay then, do the best you can“. She’s being nice but clearly thinks I’m being a total wimp.
22:00
Back in the Minor Injuries unit feeling majorly injured. Dislocated finger girl screaming as they try to point her digit the same way as the other three. Christ I hate hospitals, they are full of sick people.
Finally Doctor bloke walks in looking knackered and stressed. He’s way younger than me but even more world weary. Takes a look, makes a noise like the car mechanic when explaining that a million pounds might just cover it, and instructs various minions to clean out the wounds so he can stitch it.
22:10
Wow we’re really moving now. Male Nurse (ug, is it still me?) is a top bloke and decides there is no way they can clean it without either knocking me out or giving me a stick to chew on. We agree on a halfway house where he injects anaesthetic into the open wound. I’ll not forget that in a hurry. I ask for the stick anyway. Here’s a tip – when someone wearing any kind of medical attire apologises with “this may hurt a bit“they really are leveraging the power of understatement.
22:20
Bliss. Knee is on planet pissed and I can#t feel anything. Purple haired nurse turns up and cleans it out bringing forth an extraordinary cocktail of trail debris. Any minute now I’m expecting that scene out of alien and something badger sized to leap out of the gaping wound. My disappointment deepened when the non anesthetised arm is at the mercy of what I can only describe as a hygienic wire brush. Bring back the needles. And the stick.
23:10
Anaesthetic wearing off. This is not good as the Doc has to stitch this and the though of him wielding the needle on swollen, tender skin has me on the wrong side of extremely perturbed. Carol’s logistically perfect as ever and grimly endures my whinging monologue happy in the knowledge that Andy – parenting technique: “tha makes any noise and I’ll put pair of ya in t’cooking pot”. is now looking after the kids at home.
23:30
Doc returns breathless apologising for his tardiness. I’m a bit irritated and it shows but he spreads his hands wide and explains “I’ve been dealing with a brain tumour“. That’s me told then. I hope it’s not his own, scars I can live with, a non working knee ruthlessly removes bikes from my future. That’s almost as bad as losing a drinking arm.
Before he can stitch the knee, he must ensure the bone isn’t perforated. More syringes filled with saline are injected into the bone and any sprinkler like results mean major surgery.
Three times he tries and three times he hits bone. Oh fucking hell that really hurts. Really stupidly elbow bitingly hurts. Like a knife cutting into the bone and twisting and then twisting some more. He leaves looking concerned and I’m convinced he’s off to find a bigger needle and Steve Backley to javelin it in from the next ward.
23:45
Consultant arrives. Hes even younger. Jeez, I’m the one wearing short trousers here, surely it should be the other way round? They consult in whispers and then Doc is back to deliver the painful news: “were admitting you, it’s just not clean enough, they’ll have to angle grind it out under a general“. Or something like that.
Great. Bloody Great. Seven hours, not insignificant suffering and only now do you decide it’s too late to do get to theatre tonight. Apparently the op will be tomorrow but I’m wise to the schedule now. If I leave before they send me out in a nice pine coffin, I’ll be lucky.
24:00
Hello? Anyone there?
00:30 Wheeled up to the ward in the new part of the hospital. You can tell as the lifts work and it doesn’t smell of piss and pain. Ward seven is my new home and the bed is clean and comfortable. I wonder if it’s too late for food since the last meal was some twelve hours before. The nurse shakes her head pointing apologetically to the “Nil By Mouth” crayoned on my notes.
But would I like some painkillers. Is the bear a pope? I don’t know what they are but within minutes I’m back on the pain free planet idly wondering if the worst is over.
Yeah right.
Follow this for the diary of Day 2
Oh some would call these receptacles of all things flowery plant pots but in our hands they are ovalised death zones, black holes of destruction, the terracotta personification of abandon hope all yea who enter here“. We’re plant killers you see, not by choice but, for reasons which escape us, anything which flowers stands more of a chance of survival planted at ground zero during an atomic explosion. A lot more chance.
As we weeble towards the door wobblying under a hundred quids worth of soon to be organic cadavers, you can almost hear a nasty whisper from the surviving plants welcome to the valley of death”. For a sweet but short moment our latest compost food looks exactly like the little card accompanying it. Latterly these are papery gravestones spread throughout the garden each marking the final resting place of a once lovely bloom. Sometimes accompanied by pathetically sad lifeless stems but mostly positioned over an unhealthy brown sludge that was once a flower and before that, money.
Thing is we have almost no trouble with other plantlife – Fruit, vegetables and of course weeds flower (sic) with wild abandon. It’s like a bloody cottage industry especially the legions of fruit marching up the garden garrisoning flowerbeds and annexing new territory through perennial summer campaigns. We have a rhubarb auditioning for the main part of the Rocky Horror Show and sufficient raspberry’s to power the WI for a thousand years.
It’s the kids I feel sorry for, here’s a random dinnertime conversation which captures their horror:
What’s for tea, please not more raspberry’s?”
No, no, way better than that, Raspberry Surprise”
Suspicious: What’s the surprise”
Raspberry and Rhubarb pie with unidentified green stuff”
Plaintive: Aw Dad”
Play your cards right and it’s Rhubarb Crumble for afters with a slug’n’snail custard”
But flowers, no. Buy Ëœem, plant Ëœem, kill Ëœem. The planticide register reads:
Hoster: Death by drowning
Snowdrop: Slug attack
Tulip: Cat Strike
Very expensive purple thing: Burned to a crisp.
I could go on but you get the idea. Even the houseplants that survive our frankly woeful watering regime succumb to greenfly, whitefly or occasionally I think lose the will to live.
But the solution is at hand. A quick wibbly scan shows me plastic flowers of almost every description. Surely, not even we could kill those? In the meantime, I’m going to harvest the raspberries.
With a chainsaw.
It was all a bit touch and go. The nurse wasn’t keen to remove all the stitches as apparently “it’s still a bit loose and sloppy up there”. She was referring to my knee I think. Still I refused to leave the sanctuary of the out patients ward until she relented under my extreme whining.
We agreed that I couldn’t cycle on it for a week (boo) and that it’d have to have a dressing so the “bag knee” shower attachment has some work yet (double boo) but that’d it fine for me to go riding in Scotland next week.
I didn’t mention that it was kind of super rough off road riding with big rocks, huge climbs, knee jarring descents etc. There didn’t seem to be the right time to mention it.
Still my mood of extreme lightness was dimmed to the almost black by the belated realisation that as from tomorrow I’ll be back in the sweaty underworld of the tube. Oh how much fun is that going to be? Almost none is the optimistic answer.
Also the bike that is going to scotland is almost as wobbly as my knee. It has suffered a complex component failure that requires a plethora of tools I don’t even know where to buy. Apparently just twatting it with a hammer isn’t going to solve the problem.
Every cloud and all that tho – an excuse to buy some more shiny tools to adorn the “wall of death” where the other implements of destruction lie waiting for their next victim.
Well I’m back and I’m sad. And I mean that in a downcast, miserable cat kicking way rather than the post modern definition of a man who collects, polishes and proudly displays doorknobs as a hobby. And just to prove that this poorly researched, grammatically suspect blog has at least some basis in fact, I Googled Door Knob collection” and was rewarded by some interesting and stimulating web sites. I’ll not encourage them by putting a link in here but if you really feel you must know more about this fascinating pastime, Ebay is a good start.
No I’m sad because the weather has shades and shadows of 2003 and I can’t ride my bike. I know this to be a shallow and selfish sentiment mainly because my wife made this clear to me after I’d mentioned the root of my glumness for about the 1000th time. I was considering a little retail therapy in the form of a new frame to tide me over but it’s hard to know which testicle I don’t really need.
Still the blood red one would remind me of why I couldn’t ride. That’s justification enough surely?
Checks testicles. Apparently not. Nick over at 32Sixteen has one and is flauntingly enjoying it.
Anyway we’ve just ordered sufficient stones to empty a decent sized quarry. Think pyramid building with a few thousand hapless slaves lumping squared off rocks up spiralling verticals. Except in this case, that’ll be me portaging a few hundred slabs a hundred feet from the front garden as the delivery truck is too wide or our drive is too narrow. Whichever one it is, muggins here will be redployed as a pack horse. Unbelievably this Stonehenge like monument has cost almost as much as a new bike frame. I’m embaressed to admit I have an economics O level and it makes no sense to me at all.
Rock Hauling is based on the nice man in the hospital removing the external stitches on Monday. I’ve been sloughing skin like a fat snake and scabby deposits map out my route through the house. When the dressing was changed on Monday “ an incident which I endured through a finger mask and much gurning “ the repair looked pretty damn good especially when compared to the gaping maw that had preceeded it.
If they don’t take the stitches out on Monday, I shall be unavailable for comment having an uber grump in a dark corner and considering the potential joy of collecting door furniture.
Right that’s me done for a week. Off to Sunny Devon tomorrow for a week where I can watch the kids get wet on the outside and I’ll be getting wet on the inside once these hated antibiotics are done.
One thing to share with you before I go; “the demon duck of doom” and the flesh eating Kangaroo as shown below.
Apparently these were found in Australia but sadly are now extinct. Shame really, this would be exactly the type of family pet that’d teach proper care and handling.
More here
In whinging injury news, I finally managed to have a shower using the proven “legbag” bathroom accoutrament. Ah the joy of the cool stream of water after five days dabbing around with a moist flannel was mostly offset by cheekily removing a dressing on my arm that I felt was medical overkill.
Welcome back bastard pain of scab removal. It’s been days since you were last here. Ow.
I’m taking my laptop with me if only so I can while away the pre-beer antibiotic evenings compiling the hospital diary.
No, I can hardly wait either.
I think you’ll agree that there’s almost no social occasion where these much sought after trousering garments would not add both class and sophistication:
Sadly the pants are not included but this bag within a bag means at least I can at least take a shower. Otherwise the smell will lead our hosts nailing up the door in the holiday cottage and shouting “Bring out your dead“.
Obviously armed (legged?) with this cutting edge trouserette of choice, I’ll be fighting off the women with a stick. It’s hard to believe they’ve yet to hit the cool club scene in London yet.
I’m thinking of myself as a fashion trailblazer 🙂
Hangovers. We’ve discussed them before. But because they occupy an increasingly worrying period of my morning and occasionally afternoons, it’s worth sharing my extensively researched cures. Not drinking is one but because even I’m not prepared to flirt with such a ridiculous notion, we’ll not only leave that there, we’ll poison it, bury it and pretend it was never a member of the family.
Talking of burying worthless notions, I was forced to extend this to an individual who selfishly pushed his slicky haired, stripy suited self in front of my much needed person at what we laughingly refer to the restaurant at work. Because you’re not allowed to call it a canteen. No, honestly. While my need for fried food was both medical and instant, he exhausted the – admittedly limited – patience of the fella behind the jump asking for his sausages just so. Then after a couple of refusals, he smeared these favoured bastions of the hungover with MARMALADE. Even in a state so close to catatonic, I could not let this pass. On enquiring pleasantly “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO THAT SAUSAGE YOU PERVERT” his only excuse – excuse mind you don’t confuse that with a reason or even a rational argument – was that he was South African and this kind of thing passed as normal behaviour in the mother country.
Obviously this left me with two options; the first was to explain that while we Brits accepted the empire was long gone and that certain cultural shifts were something to be embraced and even welcomed but there were limits and in this specific case, his condimentatory faux pas was way beyond the pale. Or I could kill him in case he felt the urge to breed.
Anyone asks about a South African Gentleman suffocated in a vat of marmalade tied to a pole sporting a sign “BROWN SAUCE OR KETCHUP IF YOU MUST”, you ain’t seen me right.
Anyway Hangover cures. It’ll have to wait for another time as a mate had turned up and he has beer. And munchies. I’m sure you understand 🙂 But don’t worry I’ll be back to it, there’s a definitive list but please feel free to post up your own. Not that I’ll acknowledge them, it’s not like this is a democracy or anything.
And yet clearly bonkers British Inventor has lowered the bar even further with this.
It’s wrong on a whole range of levels. Those wheels belong on a child’s scooter. Haven ridden my kid’s two wheel death machines, I can confirm they are essentially a fatal accident waiting to happen. Their only saving grace is it’s not far to fall when the inevitable wobbly wheeled shrubbery incident occurs, normally about 2 seconds after mounting the thing.
Clive’s monstrosity ratchets up the terror by precariously positioning the pilot “ although I prefer the word victim “ way up there on some dodgy space frame. It’s going to either drop into a London pothole and disappear into the Earth’s crust or wheelie like a cocaine fuelled Lippenzipper stallion and dump the idiot that bought it from the back pages of a Sunday Magazine on his arse and probably under a bus.
Still Natural selection eh? The mail order Dodo was made extinct under the no.93 bus to Crouch End. Shame.
Laughably during the launch (oh what an appropriate term that is), it was comprehensively burnt off by a Brompton. Yes, my hinged nemesis was seen as the sensible” solution to folding cycles. The world has gone mad. Sir Clive didn’t feel the urge to ride it but then I guess he wants to enjoy his old age down the shed creating solutions to problems nobody “ except those voices in his head “ has. Remember the Zike Bike?
Still it’s a proper singlespeed. Pointless, dysfunctional, unlikely to be ridden more than two miles and latterly abandoned in the back of the garage, crouching embarrassed in the shadows.
Full story here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/5173612.stm if you must.
The second part in my odd weekend was visiting the local witch doctor masquerading as a “Massage Therapist and Holistic Healer”. Sounds a bit hokum? Agreed but with a neck full of pain and a pair of twitching shoulder blades, one must cut ones’ cloth appropriately. Even if it’s cheesecloth in a sixties psychedelic style.
I’ve tried Physio on it and all that does is move the pain about. The doctor is convinced it stress related and offered useful medical advice such as “don’t spend all day in front of a computer” which would be fine if “don’t pay the mortgage” was a feasible option.
I used to frequent a massage therapist who having retrained from being a baker has shovel like hands, a frighteningly bald pate and a countenance most resembling Blofelt’s no.1 thug. Nice fella though although I used to leave the session feeling as if I’d paid thirty quid to be worked over by a baseball bat.
This latest incarnation is rather different. Motherly, fiftyish and apologetic for causing me pain and skilled in arts other than massage. We’ve had Reiki (which I honestly believed was a drink and I didn’t begrudge her it after 30 minutes trying to unknot stressed muscles), Indian Scalp Massage (is it just me who worries about that? Indians? Scalps? You know where I’m going with this) and some other treatment that I don’t even pretend to understand.
Has it helped? Well obviously I can type again. Not sure that’s a good thing. The Jury is out on the long term effects but if things don’t improve soon, I’ll be attacking the offending area with a hacksaw.
Anyway beer is medicine isn’t it? Full of natural ingredients. Thought so.
