My Worst Crash Yet: Is this the End of the Road?

As the EMS wheeled me out on the stretcher toward the first ambulance ride of my life, Dr. M. came around the corner to wish me luck.

"Look, you seem like a good person, and I know you love to ride bikes. But this is twice in one month. You might need to find a new hobby. Please, think about it. I don't think this is good for you."

Even through the morphine, my heart was already heavy from the realization that this crash had significantly greater consequences than the last one. I sank even deeper into sadness as I considered his request and nodded in semi-agreement.

I had to at least consider that this "hobby" wasn't good for me.

Sunday, Funday. Until it wasn't.

But try talking me out of riding eight hours earlier. As we gazed east toward Circleville, West Virginia and North Fork Mountain, we discussed how the spring-green leaves of the deciduous trees lined the drainages and marveled at the beauty of this bluebird day.

Three friends and I were 22 miles into a 54-mile ride and had some decent climbing under our belts, and more was to come. Precisely 30 days out from my tooth extraction incident, I was practicing eating and drinking while riding, testing the waters for a gravel race in two weeks. My legs were feeling okay, not perfect, but acceptable.

Earlier in the ride, I realized my derailleur was falling apart. My friends, who had greater mechanical skill than I, spent 20 minutes performing roadside surgery, resulting in a buttery smooth shifting experience. We had all just finished some tasty snacks, and I put on my jacket and windstopper gloves for the descent. It was cool enough that every layer helped.

Some may know me as a rider who loves flying downhill. And I do (or did) on a mountain bike. But I've always been a little timid on a gravel bike, thanks to the nature of the bike: drop bars, no real suspension, skinnier tires, less powerful brakes. So, as we descended Public Road 112, I was my usual cautious self, keeping the speed under control. It's easy to let it rip on a paved road that is so perfectly smooth.

Except, it wasn't perfectly smooth. There were huge, perfectly round, deep potholes sprinkled randomly throughout the roads we'd been riding in the Spruce Knob area. Some had grass growing in them; some had orange paint around them. The folks up front would point them out to those behind. It was a topic of discussion. I daresay, we were all hyper-focused on avoiding these surprise disasters waiting to happen.

As we descended, I kept my eyes peeled for the dark, shadowy obstacles. The trees cast ominous shadows, sending up false alarms now and again.

So 3.5 miles into the descent, when the bike seat slammed forcefully into my crotch and my rear wheel whipped to the side, slamming me into the pavement and careening me a good 15 feet over toward the ditch, I was in complete shock. I put all my energy into keeping my head and face off the ground. I was still tangled in the bike when I came to a stop.

I yelled out for help, but someone was already on their way back to me. Perhaps a little too quickly, I got up and started walking around. My knee was throbbing. I looked down to see two fresh holes ripped in my riding pants. One of my outer gloves was torn.

As everyone rushed toward me, I turned to look back to see what I had hit. I saw the two-foot scrape of metal on the pavement where my pedal had screeched across. Following back from there, I saw a divot in the pavement. That's right, a divot. Not a giant, grass-growing, orange ringed sinkhole. A divot, deeper on the back side than the front. It was enough of a drop to create the sudden jarring motion of the seat attempting to murder my crotch, and to send the bike out of control.

It all happened so fast, I didn't have any time to think about how to wrestle the bike back into control before I hit the deck. I just wanted to keep my head off the ground.

Greg worked on checking over the bike and straightening my handlebars while I gathered my torn gloves and shoved some food and water down. Don't ask me why, I just felt the urge to hydrate. I took some ibuprofen to help with the swelling on my knee cap, which might've been a mistake. I didn't want to look at my knee, but blood was seeping through my pants.

I had a silver dollar-sized flesh wound, right on the kneecap. Painful, but it didn't keep me from pedaling. We shuffled through our bandages, and thankfully, Bruce dug out one large enough.

We were at the ride's apex, at least 25 miles from home. If we retraced our most recent steps, we could shave off some climbing but not much distance. Still, that was the best choice. Once we started climbing back up the hill we had just descended, my knee seemed to cooperate; the bandage helped. Everyone agreed that keeping it moving was the best scenario.

About 10 miles in, it became clear I was moving slowly, and pedaling another 15 miles would be a struggle. Greg and Bruce surged ahead to get a car for me, and Charlie and I kept my slow but steady pace forward.

I thought I had it in me to keep pedaling until a nature break and absence of compression shorts disrupted the careful balance that was the blood vessels in my nether regions. As I got back on my bike and made contact with the seat, the pain was suddenly overwhelming. Every pedal stroke was excruciating. That quickly, pedaling even a few miles was not an option.

Charlie's brain was working, so she kindly suggested we flag down a vehicle. I'm not in any David Goggins mode; riding out with a grotesque hematoma growing "down there" is not some heroic deed. I needed a ride.

Thankfully, it only took three asks, and we found a taker. There was only room for one passenger, but Harry's calm, concerned demeanor instantly made him trustworthy. We planned to get me back to my car and flag down the guys should they be coming back for me.

By this point, pain was taking over. It became clear that once I got back to our launch point, Still Hollow Distillery, I'd need a ride home and then a ride to the Emergency Department. I barely had the strength to change out of my riding clothes before finding a safe place to lie on the floor and prepare to pass out. Everyone was trying to get out calls and make a plan.

I haven't had a drink in three years, but believe me, I thought about asking for a shot. I was lying on a distillery floor after all.

I knew that popping more ibuprofen at this point was the wrong move. So, it wasn't until I was offered morphine eight hours after the injury (and the initial 400mg of ibuprofen) that I had anything for the pain.

The scans were a mixed bag. Absolutely no broken bones, but the liver had a laceration. This is what was getting me strapped to a stretcher and shipped off to the trauma center at Ruby Memorial in Morgantown, West Virginia. This is what led Dr. M. to plead with me to find another hobby.

The ambulance ride was uneventful, except for a few well-placed potholes that sent my midsection leaping off the stretcher, and back down. I wasn't allowed to stand, so there were a lot of folks transferring me from the stretcher to a bed, from the bed to the CT scanner, back to the bed. Then off to the Surgery ICU to await next steps.

Entry into the trauma center is pretty much what you'd expect. A million people ask questions, attach electrodes, gather vital signs, and offer pain meds. I had to be convinced about morphine the first time, but that quickly changed. All the movement was adding insult to injury.

Oh, and I was scared. As the doctor addressed me directly, he asked if I had any questions.

"Can this kill me?"

To be fair, I also asked Ed this when I was on the phone with him at Still Hollow regarding my hematoma. But as the words came out this time, I knew the answer wouldn't be pretty.

"Well, that's why you're here. We're going to keep an eye on it. It's a minor laceration. But yes, if the bleeding increases and we don't catch it, it could. "

His eyes were kind as he patted my arm.

There wasn't much blood left to drain from my face; I imagine it was all down in my pelvic area, filling the hematoma. Dr. M. had said as much, too, but something about the setting and this being the second time I heard of this death possibility sent my anxiety through the roof. I had no power over the situation, and 10-15 other people were worrying about fixing it. Plus, a friend told me this happens to riders in bad crashes, and they recover fine. Those thoughts helped contain the fear.

Great news…but.

Settling into SICU, I was hoping for some sleep. Pain management was now a priority, and while my blood pressure was still through the roof, my inner turmoil stabilized. I had cried about it enough—time to sleep.

And then the kind-eyed doctor came bursting in.

"I have great news! There is no liver laceration! It is a benign cyst called a hemangioma. It's benign. Not cancer."

"Can it become cancer?" I asked.

"Nope, not these. It's nothing to worry about. You can monitor it to ensure it doesn't grow and cause discomfort. We will keep you here to verify that everything else is stabilized. This is great news!"

He bounded off, and nurses came in to move me to another floor, not so close to the OR. I was out of the woods. Bill was visibly relieved. I texted my brother and sister, I wasn't going to die, I just had the Girl from Ipanema on my liver. Or something like that.

I found out the next day that the scan also showed a 1.3 cm splenic artery aneurysm. The jury is out as to whether this was caused by the trauma of the accident or had already developed. To me, this is the most important finding of all the scans, and something I'll have to take seriously and keep monitoring.

I spent a couple of nights at Ruby to get the pain under control and regain mobility. My twin sister came down from New York to provide physical and emotional support. I had enough time to consider the simple reality that once again, I was lucky. I'd made it out without any severe injuries to my head, spine, or other skeletal structures and vital organs. I was alive.

With Gratitude

There is a long list of heroes who guided me through this ordeal, starting with my friends, who did everything in their power to get me out of the middle of nowhere safely and back home. I owe a special thanks to Harry the Stranger, who kept me calm as we drove the 15 miles back to Still Hollow.

I'm also lucky to have friends who are doctors and could weigh in on the situation on a Sunday afternoon, sending Bill and me packing to the ER. Of course, I am very grateful to Bill, who stayed by my side until my amazing sister showed up at Ruby. And many thanks to all our friends who provided dog-sitting assistance while we were away.

I am eternally grateful to all the doctors, nurses, staff of both hospitals, and the ambulance crew, each doing their job with utmost compassion and professionalism. I had one particular nurse for my two days at Ruby that kept me sane, encouraging me to walk and never getting annoyed at my constant requests for a fresh ice pack.

Will I ride again?

Yes! For me, riding is more than a hobby; it is a way of life. Riding has brought me joy, strength, and self-awareness through good times and bad. Plus, it is just plain fun, and I've already tried running. Riding bikes is how I commune with nature, hang with my friends, experience adventure, and find out what I'm made of.

But sitting on a bike seat is impossible now and likely for another 3-6 weeks, depending on how quickly the pelvic hematoma heals. The Leadville 100 MTB is only three months away. The recovery would put such a hole in my training that I could not scramble back to fitness quickly enough. I have already crossed the finish line at Leadville. I know I can do that. This year, I wanted to cross well under 12 hours and take home the buckle. My goal is not to make a sub-par appearance and attempt the race in compromised shape.

So, I will defer this year. I'm not sure when I will go back, as I had my sights set on seeing the next total solar eclipse in Iceland next year on August 12, 2026, just four days after the race. Given the path of totality, I haven't researched enough to see if a trip to Iceland is worth it. So it could be Buckle 2026! Or, maybe I do both!

Whatever the case, I have to take a break from training, and that's okay. I'm just relieved to have a happy hepatic system.

I'll not give up riding, but I will make this promise to Dr. M. and myself: I will be more careful. I'm not sure exactly what that means yet, but I have plenty of time to figure it out.

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