On Sunday, at around 2pm (maybe?), I stacked it on a wet and slippery street in Portland. That’s about as much as I can say, because I’m not entirely sure what happened. But I stacked it and no-one was around and I thought I was fine.
Man, I was angry. I couldn’t believe that I’d stacked it. But here I was, fine, no broken bones or anything. Handlebars were bent but that looked about it. I decided to walk back to the hotel in a huff.
I started walking. I tweeted that I’d stacked it and how I couldn’t believe it had happened. And walked some more.
And then I started to feel weird. Tentitively touched my face. Huh. That feels weird. I used my iPhone to take a photo of my face so I could look at it. Holy shit. That’s when I knew I was actually in trouble. I tweet…
"Actually fuck shit .."
These are the kinds of messages you send when you know you’re in trouble but are too concussed to actually be of much use to anyone. I’ve really got to stop using Twitter as an emergency beacon. The phone is an actual phone. Perhaps next time I should just call someone.
Then a person I barely know helped me. I say barely know, because it’s one of those ‘half-know-via-twitter-and-work-but-don’t-know-that-well’ people, but she’s Australian and all Australian’s know each other anyway. Our conversation to organize rescue and hospital portage all occurs through twitter.
I DM her “Help. I need help. Pretty sure I have concussion.” I’m able to give her street names and lickety split, she’s there with J and we’re loading Precious in their car and zooming off to the hospital.
I don’t really remember this. I don’t remember them arriving at the scene. I don’t remember driving there. I half-remember being in the waiting room (partly because I took a photo of my face in there too). I don’t remember being examined, though I’m very glad that when asked, I got the year right this time, and I correctly identified Obama as President instead of that other weasel. Stella told me later that when asked, I knew I was out here in Portland working at Wieden, but I had NO IDEA what I did there.
No idea. A career conveniently forgotten.
Anyway, it’s all worked out ok. My head was once again saved by a helmet, which sacrificed itself to save me. Although… my face. Why do I keep using my face to break falls? I s’pose it’s better than re-breaking my wrist.
In closing. Wear a helmet. Wear a RoadID. And never blame the bike.
I can’t wait to get back out there.