A nasty crash has Chad Bean looking at his local trails from a new perspective.
- Words: Chad Bean
- Photography: Sam Reed
Autumn is upon us, and the routes through the woods today feel damper, darker, more challenging. My rear tyre skids along a tree root before finding purchase in the damp, gritty sand and we push on upwards. Up the side of the valley, to the highest point, to the Trig Point. “I’ll see you at the bottom,” comes a cheery shout from Sam as he drops into the descent. I follow immediately, better to crack on than wait to dwell on the dangers. I yell “dropping in” with mock bravado and follow hot on his heels.
As we reach the first technical section I start to fall back, and a minute later he is out of sight. It’s not about my hardtail vs his fully, nor that he is undeniably the more skilled rider. The reason this feels slow and surreal is that last time I was here I crashed. Laugh-it-off pratfalls are part and parcel of riding in muddy woods. This one was different though, heavier. I crashed real hard.
But I’m getting ahead of myself… We need to go back to a sunnier, more innocent time. I’m going to need you to time travel. Shake the magazine (or screen) and do a sound effect – that’s it – I think it’s working!
Such a perfect day
I ride solo on rocky singletrack winding upward through the wooded valley side. Threading a path through the rocks, taking care not to dab a foot down. The going is good – a free draining sandy loam – the recent sunshine has penetrated to the forest floor and today even the tangled roots provide grip. Soon enough I reach the gate at the edge of the woods. Beyond this the landscape opens out to heather, birch, gritstone and grass tussock. A hilltop lit up by golden evening sunshine.
This is the climbing challenge I am here for – Gate to Trig – no dabs. It’s tough, but doable on pedal power alone. I set a confident pace, picking a route through the ruts and rocks, scanning ahead and not overthinking things. The track steepens and my breathing deepens as I reach the key feature: a ten-metre long stone slab, steep and weather worn. Dropping the saddle I stand on the pedals and aim for the centre, the smoothest line. The gradient will drag the unwary off to the left, so I lean into the slope and muscle it straight up the middle. The low pressure tyres grip easily on the dry rock, and with a few short pedal strokes I’m over the crux and pushing on through a chunky section of rocks and roots.
I weave through the gritstone, focusing on the pedal movements through the main pinch point, careful not to strike a rock and throw away what promises to be a clean run. The ground drops away for a brief moment and I carry that momentum into the final steep push up to the trig point. I am gasping for breath, brimming with confidence and immediately turn into the downhill section aiming to improve on my ninth place online for the full loop up and down the hill – Gate to Trig to Gate.
I drop the saddle down, ducking under silver birch leaves, clicking up through the gears. Building momentum, suspension absorbing the initial rocky chunder. I pin it through sandy S-bends working my recently acquired pumping skills. This is my 30th descent of the ‘Death Run’ segment– a tongue-in-cheek name – it is perfectly rideable. I am looking ahead, picking a line through rocks as my front tyre suddenly slides away on the desiccated sand beneath me. The ground accelerates towards my face, my chest slams into the ground, my chin splits open and I slide along the track, grinding my lid into the dirt.
Getting serious
Bestial moans emanate from my body as it tries to reinflate my lungs. I could write a string of elongated vowels, but you might laugh and this is Serious. This crash feels consequential and I consider what the damage might be. It hurts like hell though I’m pretty calm; to some extent I have disassociated myself from the crumpled figure on the ground.
I crawl off the singletrack onto a soft bed of grass with a springy heather pillow. I glance back at my bike and realise I can’t get to it right now, though it does seem rather bad form leaving it askew across the racing line. I’m getting control of my breathing, and notice the blood streaming across my face onto my shoulder. I run my hand over my features: nose okay, eye sockets unbroken, ears attached. Ah my chin is bleeding; I give my jaw an experimental wiggle, prod a few teeth, all seems fine.
‘Help, Help…’ It’s a pretty feeble shout; I can’t summon my usual lung power. Anyhow I’m pretty certain no one else is up here. I don’t carry a phone, perhaps that is dangerous – perhaps society’s phone addiction is dangerous in a different way. Anyway, I’ll not bother the air ambulance. I’ll get up. I will get up… I’ll get up in a moment. I self-diagnose broken ribs down my left-hand side, and a bruised knee. I can ride back home on this. Enough prevaricating, I AM getting up. I roll onto my feet, and stand up uneasily. Hunched down on my left side I shuffle back to the bike. My ride seems okay, not even a dropped chain.
I start walking down the hill pushing the bike, but each left-hand footstep sends a sickening jolt of pain through my chest. I stop to summon up a bit of resolve. Time to try riding, slowly, slowly, but this is okay, this is going to work! Optimism reigns supreme right up to the next rock garden, where the jolts through the suspension are more than I can stomach. I make an inelegant dismount and pick my way gingerly through the rocks on foot. I’m moving slowly, slow enough that my GPS device is not recording anymore so I can’t tell you how long it took to get down off the hillside. I can tell you that it took a while, and I had to dig deep into my suitcase of courage.
One grim step at a time down the hill, and the bike comes rolling after. I’d normally turn steep left here on the descent – a little moment where if I drop in fast and sharp I feel a tiny bit epic, a touch of Peaty verve amongst my pedestrian mediocrity. Not today though, no way Ray. I stumble down the gentler looping switchback, the one I confidently rode up earlier. It bottoms out in the vestigial remnants of a perennial muddy puddle; I traipse through the ruts and up a rocky rise, a stoney expression on my bloodstained features. Morale is low and barely lifts even as I reach the old railbed, a level ride back towards town. I am pretty worn out so even this easy roll back home feels like a significant challenge. I set an interim target of the car park water tap; I will wash the blood off and reassess things. Unsmiling I roll past a concerned looking young family and pull up by steps leading to the tap. I’m not sure I can make it up those four steps as just getting off the bike feels pretty ambitious. A dog walker asks “Are you okay?” I mumble “No”.
I slump against a rock, bleeding, exhausted. A few lads drive into the car park, shouting and jeering through the open windows – if you ride a bike you’ll have known the same. Shortly after this another car spots me, but these lads pull up and ask if I’m okay – do I need help? I tell them help is on its way.
Recovery time
Hospital scans show three broken ribs, and I have surgery that night for traumatic pneumothorax. My left lung has collapsed and the chest cavity is a pocket of air. The surgeon rigorously prods my aching ribs and consults colleagues before marking a dot on my side with a felt-tip pen. I glance down and am told to look away, just a moment before he drives a large needle between my ribs. “You can hear the air fizzing out,” he cheerily remarks. The post-op X-ray shows the operation has worked well; the surgeon practically fist pumps the air declaring “another satisfied customer”. My ribs still ache, but the surgery has relieved the horrible aching stitch feeling in my abdomen.
I spend a few nights in hospital, luxuriating in a private room with a very handy motorised bed. I’m keen to get home, but the physio takes some convincing; I fight to cough with the vigour and gusto he demands. (Tip: tuck a pillow under your arm to hold your detached ribs in place.) And then I am free, and making daily progress in the first few weeks. It doesn’t last. I catch a cold, morale drops and recovery seems to stagnate. I persevere though. I grew up in Leeds, just up the road from the Fforde Grene pub where Chumbawamba wrote their hit single ‘Tubthumping’. You know the one – all about getting back up and never admitting defeat… A few months pass and I’m back gravel riding; another month and I’m on the mountain bike. That I would return was never in doubt.
Back in the saddle
The consequences of a crash are very real, but I’d always known that. I want to live life actively. I seek out inconvenience; I choose the gnarly path. A mountain biker has to accept the odd bruise and scuff every now and then. I’ll be paying close attention to ground conditions in future, though, and erring on the cautious side. So here’s hoping there are no more emergency visits to A&E. My short convalescence was humbling. There is no joy in a painful battle getting out of bed, little dignity in having someone put your socks on for you. I am all the more motivated to remain healthy as long as possible, and cycling should go some way to realising that goal.
Autumn soon gives way to winter. The low sun will light the trail for a few hours; hours enough to ride. Damp and cold are no great hardship. Rotting skeletal leaves will pave our way, as we head out to clear the lungs – clear the head – fully present.
