ACCIDENT

PART ONE

Dozens of Monarch butterflies continued to rise before my eyes, their brilliant orange wings overlapping like obsidian filigreed golden poppies. Vortexed in slow motion, a fortuitous updraft could have carried them all the way to the summit. They were disappearing like a dream.

Meanwhile, the momentarily blinding reflection of sunlight from the distant Pacific Ocean had turned into a sharp dagger, piercing into the left side of my skull.

Slowly, I extracted my left arm from the crushed tangle of mountain whitethorn and felt my head. My helmet was still on. The bloody scratches on my arms and hands were the least of my injuries, as I was slowly realizing, mouth dried from having been open for some unbeknown amount of time. Just when I was moving my eyes to survey the damage, I heard the quick click-click-click and an annoyed shout from Laura, “Maurice, just let Rock take the first place!” Her voice faded away along with the soft humming of her freewheel.

Where am I? Why am I here?

My mind drifted in and out of consciousness. That spiky tall bush caught me on my way down also left cuts all over my body: the smell of my blood mixed oddly with the fragrance of blooming ceanothus, my headache intensified. Dozens of feet below, sticking out of the bramble, that red, odd-shaped thing was the pretzeled remains of my bike.

I remembered our late start.

Our thirteenth ride to the summit of Mount Rampola—a symbolic triumph of surviving COVID-19 pandemic, which took Robert’s life and Kevin’s health. Laura was the only one of the remaining three of us with enough determination to restart the annual ride following the three-year hiatus.

We had plenty of time on our way up to curse at the wicked nail that flattened Maurice’s car tire and delayed our 8 am start to almost noon! Of course, we still raced each other, even now there were just three of us: competition had always been the bond of our old bike gang formed since college days. With the sun high and bright above, beads of sweat swiftly saturated my neon green jersey, once perfectly fit, now clinging just a tad too snugly. But I still pushed to get ahead of Maurice and Laura whenever I could on this hellish seventeen-mile, constantly 5+% incline.

Oh, yes! My left toes still could wiggle, but my right foot on which a torn shoe was still attached could not move.

My vision of a sweat-soaked green jersey was replaced by blue, white, and red blocks joined side-by-side—three French bikers decided to display their pride all the way to the top! They rode between Laura and Maurice—both ahead—and I for a good two miles before I finally wriggled ahead, pumping hard to leave them in my imaginary dust. F*%king frogs!

The pain in my right knee shot up again while the light to the west was fading. My wet jersey started to wick away what felt like the last warmth in my torso. Only some sweet savoring thoughts were keeping me from fading away.

Following a brief respite to relish the panoramic view finally came to my favorite part of this ride. The exhilarating rush of speed never failed to invigorate me, and my newly gained few pounds for sure helped propelling me toward the first place. There was a reason I have earned the affectionate nickname “rock”— my unfailing ability to plummet downhill with the grace of a stone. Only this time, it went too far.

But Maurice and Laura must have passed me some time ago. When would they find me missing? It’s almost dark now!

There was just enough daylight left for me to discern the block of blue–white–red color traveling down in unison. Click-click-click.

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PART TWO

On the second training ride—10 miles into the committed minimum of 350 miles on wheels, I fell. My bike slid on loose gravel while coasting down a small hill toward a wooden bridge. Instantly, my right side bore witness of this unscheduled body-ground interception: clothes covered in dirt, elbow in blood. The next moment, I got back on my feet. “Mommy, are you ok?” Selena was following closely, her voice full of worry. I reassured her I was OK. We biked back to our car in silence—my head still searching for the cause; my confidence a little shaken.

We were training for the Ride Across California (RAC), a program to prepare fifth graders to successfully complete a week long ride from the Colorado River to the Pacific Ocean next Spring Break. The day of my fall, September 2, 2023, we went to Lake Hodges to explore a scenic trail along the north side of the lake.

The first casualty of my fall was a planned swim the following morning at La Jolla Shores. I was supposed to swim at 4:30 am with Rachel Wetterlin, who had been training for her a mid-October crossing of the Catalina Channel (I am not training for any marathon swimming, although since hurricane Hilary, I made a new plan to swim in the ocean every day). After some consideration, I concluded that my open wound, which was roughly the size of two quarters, wouldn’t be sufficiently healed the next day.

Instead of swimming, I stayed at home to finish the final assignment of my creative writing class (see PART ONE). The story was conceived and mostly written before my accident. The unlucky biker in my story had a far worse wreck on his wheels. That accident was conjured up based on my eavesdropping in chatrooms of local biking groups (some folks like to show photos of their bloody knees). As I was wrapping up my assignment, I could not help but feeling amused by the timing of my accident and relieved by how mild mine was in comparison. I soon found out: however undramatic, my accident brought me an authentic experience, which I felt every day for the following weeks.

A day later, I was back in the ocean and back to regular swimming. My elbow wound didn’t hurt much, although it took on an awful appearance of grey gooey paste after each swim as if my body was rushing to seal itself off. Over the following three weeks, the main trauma I experienced had been in areas where there was no visible mark. The muscles around my rib cage ached with each breath during swimming. My right shoulder and upper arm also took turns experiencing different degree of soreness, although neither was as troublesome as the pain from breathing. Nevertheless, each day, there was some small and gradual improvement. The full recovery took a little over three weeks.

One week after the fall, we returned to Lake Hodges and retraced the trail. I paid extra attention to the spot where I fell and made a mental note on how to navigate it safely. On the second ride, both Selena and I have improved on our riding techniques and strength compared to the week before. 326 miles to go.

Three weeks post-accident, the skin on my right elbow had mostly healed. Would the scar eventually fade completely? Its peculiar shape took the shape of Lake Hodges, at least when I squint at it.

Updates:

• September 30, 2023. Swam with Rachel at 4:50 am at La Jolla Shores.
• October 1, 2023. Fourth ride at Lake Hodges. 291 miles to go.
• October 16, 2023. Rachel Wetterlin completed her Catalina Channel swim in 13 hours and 6 minutes. I am proud to be part of her crew and companion swimmers.
• April 7th to 13th, 2024, Selena and I joined more than a hundred fifth-grade kids and their parents to ride from Yuma, Arizona to Mission Bay over seven day, covering over 260 miles. A story about this journey is coming.