Chris Dikes - The Accident: A Bike, A Truck, and A Train

THE ACCIDENT:

A BIKE, A TRUCK, AND A TRAIN

CHRIS DIKES

Copyright 2014 Chris Dikes

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may bereproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form or by any meanswithout the written permission of the author, except in the case ofbrief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Any trademarks, service marks, product names, ornamed features are assumed to be the property of their respectiveowners and are used only for reference.

The opinionsexpressed in this book are solely those of the author. The names ofsome individuals in this book have been changed. The conversationsand order of events depicted are as the author remembersthem.

For Angela, my wife, and Samuel, my son.

Fear is not a bad place to start a spiritualjourney. If you know what makes you afraid, you can see moreclearly that the way out is through the fear.

Kathleen Norris, Dakota

PROLOGUE

My eyes opened and I gazed up at a white, metalceiling. Where was I? How did I get here, wherever here was? Whatday was it? What time was it? Unable to figure out the answers tothese questions, panic ensued and my heart started pounding. Itried to get up, but I couldnt. Both of my arms and legs had beenstrapped down to whatever I was laying on.

I noticed a woman in a blue uniform to my right.

What happened? I asked.

You were in an accident.

Those words, You were in an accident, released thepain from whatever gate had held it back. My face felt as if Idbeen punched repeatedly, not that Id ever been punched in the facemultiple times, but this was what it must feel like. My chinthrobbed. I tasted blood in my mouth and ran my tongue along myswollen lip. My neck had been placed in a brace to prevent me frommoving my head in any direction. I couldnt see my left leg, but itfelt as if it were burning and being hit with a baseball bat at thesame time. To my right, I saw a sea of blood that covered theentirety of my right arm.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember anything.What was the last thing I remembered doing? I waited, but nothingcame to mind. My thoughts were a blank slate. I opened my eyes andsaw a picture of myself on a bike. Had I been riding my bike?

Had I been in some sort of accident while riding mybike?

To ride a bike is to accept the fact that at somepoint an accident will occur. The severity may vary from person toperson and incident to incident, but escaping accident-free is notan option. Our family photo album contains a picture of me at mysixth birthday party. I am standing next to my new bike, a Huffy56, and there is a huge smile on across my face. Grandpa Elkins andUncle John stand on either side of me. I wonder if they were theones whod purchased the bike or if they just happened to bestanding next to me for the picture. Behind us in the picture,there are people eating my birthday cake. All I care about is thebike. I dont remember the picture being taken, but I do remembertaking that bike into the front of the house and trying to ride itin the street. I fell and scraped my elbows and knees. Welcome tothe world of riding a bike.

A few years later, after my parents divorce and aseries of moves, I moved with Mom to Seguin, Texas. During thesummers, I rode my bike all over town. It was a different time in1979, one where a fourth grader could disappear for the day on hisbike. I used to ride my bike along the sidewalks of Texas LutheranCollege. One afternoon, I thought Id try to impress a couple ofthe college girls who were enrolled in summer school. After all,what nineteen-year-old girl wouldnt be impressed by a fourthgrader on a bike who could ride like the wind? I sped up, hoppedoff the sidewalk onto the grass, passed the young women, and thenattempted to hop back on the sidewalk. Instead of a gracefulreentry, my front tire hit the edge of the sidewalk and catapultedme forward over the handlebars. I flew across the sidewalk and slidacross the grass, scraping the inside of my right wrist. How Ididnt injure myself further is beyond me. The girls walked bywithout even stopping to render aid. I guess we were not meant tobe.

Two weeks later, not having learned my lesson, Iattempted to impress another group of college coeds with the samemaneuver. The results were the same, except that this time Iscraped the inside of my left wrist. For years, I had identicalscars on each wrist.

Throughout junior high, there would be moreaccidents and more scrapes, but once I turned sixteen and got acar, I left the bike in the garage. I took up biking in college,not so much for the exercise or the fun, but as a way to save moneyon gas. I rode to school and back, safely and without incident.Once my finances improved, I went back to the car.

In my mid-thirties, tired of running for exercise, Itook up road cycling. Two weeks after the purchase of my first roadbike, a red Trek 1200, and four weeks before the birth of my son, Isped away from a group of friends, hit a patch of gravel on adownhill turn, and sailed over the handlebars landing on my leftshoulder in a patch of grass. I sat on the ground in a daze waitingfor the others to catch up. Feeling okay, not seeing any bonessticking out through the skin or any blood on my body, I stood upand checked the bike for damages. It had survived as well. Myshoulder felt stiff from landing on it and I noticed a slight bumpthat I didnt recall feeling before. Since I could still move myarm, I hopped on the bike and kept riding. When I arrived back atthe car, my shoulder had stiffened to the point where I couldbarely move my arm and the pain had increased substantially. One ofthe riders in the group was a chiropractor who bought me a sling atCVS to immobilize the arm. We later went to his office where hetook an x-ray of my shoulder and then advised me to see anorthopedist.

I made an appointment with Dr. M, an orthopedist whospecialized in sports medicine. In thirteen years of marriage,Angela, my very pregnant wife who tolerated my sports activities,had never been with me to a single doctors appointment. Four weeksfrom her due date, she went with me, worried that Dr. M mightprescribe surgery and shed be stuck taking care of our newborn sonand me.

He diagnosed the injury as a grade three shoulderseparation. No surgery necessary, just physical therapy. He shouldbe healed up in time for the birth of your son, he told her.

I did everything the therapist told me to do and wasback to normal by the time Samuel arrived.

Eighteen months later, riding into a cold headwindon a November morning, I rode up a hill on a deserted country road.A stray dog chased me up the hill and then lunged at my foot beforeI could escape. I thought the dog had missed biting me until Istopped to refill my water bottles ten miles later. The dog hadnicked me just above my ankle, barely breaking the skin. Therewasnt even a trickle of blood. I was more upset that the dog hadripped a hole in my new leg warmers. When I arrived home, I showedthe minuscule bite to Angela.

What do you think about this? I asked.

It doesnt look too bad.

I guess so. They can probably be patched.

She looked at me with a furrowed brow. I meant yourleg.

Oh yeah. Do you think I should do anything aboutit?

I dont know. Did the dog even break the skin?

That night I decided to visit an emergency careclinic. I explained the injury to the attendant at the frontcounter, who took my name and handed me a stack of forms to fillout.

All these? I asked.

Two are general client forms. The rest of thatstack is for the dog bite. Were required to report all animalbites to the Department of Health and Human Services.

I shouldve stayed home, I thought. I found an emptyseat and started filling out the forms. Twenty minutes later, anurse called me back. She looked at the wound and asked how it hadoccurred. When the doctor arrived ten minutes later, he asked allthe same questions.