Some folks say a broken collarbone is a rite of passage for a cyclist, and I'm now a member of the club. But guess what: this place sucks. The entertainment is shoddy, the couches are lumpy, the food is mushy and something smells. I want out – ASAP.
You might remember that I broke my hand last October, and like last year, I was again racing my cyclo-cross bike on a beautiful Colorado fall day. But the circumstances were a little different this time around – I went for a pass through a dust-over-hardpack chicane and my front wheel shot out from beneath me. No time to brace myself, no time to react.
In retrospect it was foolish, wholly avoidable, and I've no one to blame but myself. (Seriously, though, I'm not usually terrible at this! Had two good seasons followed by a couple of bad races. Really.) The worst part? I actually heard the thing snap.
Luckily, I was able to load my bike back onto my car (manual transmission, naturally) and the hospital wasn't far away. Not only that, I actually had enough time after checking in at reception to head home and change into street clothes (quite proud of myself for being able to get my new BikeRadar kit off without the aid of scissors) so at least I didn’t have to mill about looking like a kid in Underoos. And the quick 600mg of ibuprofen out of our medicine cabinet didn't hurt, either.
Fast-forward another hour and yep, definitely broken. Pretty well displaced, too. I won't be able to see an orthopod (hi Dr Koch, it's me again) until Monday but I'm hoping he recommends surgery for a speedier recovery. In the meantime, many thanks to the friendly Saturday staff at Boulder Community Hospital urgent care: Dr Kosta, nurse Carol and X-ray tech Philippa.
On the positive side, I'm now the proud owner of a fetching navy blue sling and a fresh prescription for Percocet, plus I conveniently had bought myself a couple of new short-sleeved button-down shirts a few days ago – apparently in subconscious preparation for just such an event. To be continued…