As I stood by my e-bike on the start line of Colorado鈥檚 gravel race in August, surrounded by hundreds of other cyclists, I asked myself if I should be feeling like an outsider. Although I knew there were other paracyclists participating in the race, at that moment, surrounded by other able-bodied racers, I felt like the only one. I wondered, too, if I should be feeling triumphant, or maybe nervous, as I waited to start my first big race since a hit-and-run in 2019 left me near death and permanently partially paralyzed.

Instead, I felt right at home. I鈥檝e done hundreds of bike races, and this was my third as a paracyclist. But my comfort caught me off-guard, given the newness of the experience I was about to have: new race, in the event鈥檚 new paracycling category, and riding with my still-new body. Looking for something to be comfortably nervous about, I started thinking about my new, untested tires, which were necessitated by an ill-timed sidewall tear days earlier.听

Did I have the right pressure? Would they be grippy enough?

I鈥檇 ridden a lot in the weeks leading up to Colorado鈥檚 largest gravel race, and had started to feel like the competent, confident rider I used to be, albeit, now accompanied by the whine of my bike鈥檚 electric motor when I pedaled. I鈥檇 been climbing thousands of feet on the weekends and keeping up with able-bodied riders on group rides.听

鈥淚t鈥檚 champagne gravel,鈥� I said to myself, a name that references Steamboat Springs鈥� pavement-smooth dirt roads, 鈥渋t鈥檚 fine. It鈥檒l be fine.鈥澨�

I told myself that things were fine a lot in the lead up to SBT, even when they were not: it was fine when I rode a borrowed bike at Pete Stetina鈥檚 Pay Dirt gravel race in May, and got a bad saddle sore; it was fine when my chain seemed to bounce off my bike after every bump at Colorado鈥檚 FoCo Fondo in July; it was fine when I couldn鈥檛 even sign up for two other races in Colorado because they didn鈥檛 allow e-bikes, no matter how paralyzed my leg was.听

As a result, I wanted to have a good experience at SBT GRVL; for it to actually be a fine day. The race organization welcomed paracyclists, as well as other marginalized groups, following the lead set by another gravel event, Rebecca鈥檚 Private Idaho. Not only was SBT GRVL one of several races to add a paracycling category in 2022, but it also welcomed non-binary athletes with their own categories, and reserved space for the BIPOC-focused group Ride For Racial Justice and the body-inclusive group All Bodies On Bikes, of which I was a member.听听听听

鈥淲e feel really strongly that bikes are a vehicle to build relationships, build community, and see new places,鈥� said Greer Van Dyck, SBT GRVL鈥檚 community relations director. 鈥淥ur efforts at being inclusive is the vehicle to help more people of all kinds access that experience.鈥澨�

The inclusion of paracyclists at more gravel races came at a good time for me, because after three years of healing, I finally felt ready to compete again. Competitive cycling used to be a major part of my life, and prior to the crash, I was used to training and racing 18 hours a week, nearly year-round. The last time I鈥檇 raced was in 2019, my sixth season competing in elite international races on the track, and my 11th season as an elite road racer. The Pay Dirt race was the first time I mustered the courage to line up since the bike racer version听of myself was replaced by a different primary descriptor: survivor of vehicular assault. The race went OK, but I forgot the basics of competitive cycling: eat food, drink, and, don鈥檛 ride an unfamiliar saddle when half your ass is atrophied and you鈥檙e going to be very far from the car.听Plus, racing with only one functional leg was听a whole new thing for me. FoCo Fondo went better, drivetrain issues notwithstanding, but I was the only para in the race and didn鈥檛 really feel any real pressure to compete.听听

SBT was different. Paracyclists could compete in any of the four distances: 37, 60, 100, or 142 miles, and there were more than 40 para-athletes in attendance. There were enough of us that finding accessible parking in town was a bit of an unusual and welcome challenge. We exchanged knowing nods with each other as we cruised the pre-race expo on Yampa Street.听

Meg Fisher, a physical therapist who lost a leg as a young woman and then went on to represent the U.S. in two Paralympic games, was largely responsible for the throng of para-athletes at SBT GRVL. Fisher has preached the importance of welcoming paracyclists to race promoters, highlighting the opportunity the new discipline of gravel has to set the standard for inclusion in cycling鈥攁 sport that doesn鈥檛 have the best track record of being welcoming.听She organized a reunion for the 2012 Paralympic cycling team at SBT, guaranteeing a critical mass of athletes. Ratcheting lace maker BOA has a medical division, called Click Medical, that鈥檚 based in Steamboat Springs and supplies parts for the orthotics and prosthetics that some para athletes, including me, use. They offered prizes for the para-categories, setting the scene for a showdown.听

Kind of.

In Paralympic cycling, athletes are separated into narrow categories based on ability and the equipment they use. At SBT GRVL, we all raced each other in one conglomeration; me and my single paralyzed leg, riding a standard, upright e-bike, could be racing someone with no normally working legs cranking a handcycle up a climb, with or without an electric assist. But the para-athletes I spoke with were excited to be at SBT GRVL, and not at all hung up on minutiae. For many of us, racing was more about participation than results.

Sydney Marshburn, a 24-year-old racer from Murfreesboro, Tennessee, may have been the most excited of all of us. Less than a year prior, she lost most of her left leg to the rare medical condition Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a disorder that impacts connective tissues and blood vessels. She won an entry to SBT in a sweepstakes,听and SBT was her first time riding her recumbent trike on gravel.听

鈥淎dding a para category to a large event like SBT GRVL showed the world that cycling is for everyone, no matter a person鈥檚 physical impairment,鈥� she told me.听

Sydney鈥檚 goal was to finish; I dreamt of winning.听

In fact, I was determined to win at all reasonable costs. I was participating in the 60-mile race, and would share the course with nearly 1,000 other riders. So I decided to ride the front and stay ahead of other paracyclists by outriding every cyclist I could. I hoped my new tires had enough grip and that my chain would stay on.听

The race started with a horn and I weaved through riders until I was sitting at the front, my bike humming away in tour mode鈥攖he lowest boost settings. It was so exciting to be there, at the head of the race, slicing through the chilled morning air, chatting with other racers and taking selfies. It felt just like the gran fondos I鈥檇 ridden in the past鈥攁 calm moment before the race began. I stopped worrying about how I thought I was supposed to be feeling and settled into the moment.听

Soon, we hit that champagne gravel and the race was on. I latched onto the back of the lead group and we grunted up a climb. I closed small gaps between the abled-bodied riders ahead a couple times before they dropped me. I switched to turbo mode to catch back up. Were other paras using turbo? Were they sweating up a hill on a handcycle, already miles behind with their lesser mechanical advantage? I decided not to worry about it. Sixty miles is comfortably within the range of my bike鈥檚 batteries (and the strength in my legs) but I knew I had to be judicious with turbo mode or I wouldn鈥檛 make it home. The next time I got dropped, I chased on the flats alongside another rider.听

I lost the lead group at a rest stop when I paused to fill my bottles and the bunch continued on. I declined the proffered whiskey shot because I鈥檓 a Serious Bike Racer and it was 9:30 A.M., but I still wasn鈥檛 able to catch them. I flashed through wafts of manure scent emanating from sleepy ranches and took in the rolling, desert scenery dotted with clumps of cottonwoods and interlaced with streams that gushed after an unusually wet summer.听

I switched to turbo mode for the long, final climb, and started passing some blown 60-milers who had dropped me earlier. After cresting, I inelegantly clattered down the long, bumpy descent. Because of my left leg鈥檚 paralysis, I can鈥檛 stand evenly on the pedals. Instead, I descend rough terrain by standing on the right pedal. It鈥檚 not fast, nor a good way to control the bike, but it鈥檚 all I鈥檝e got. I did my best to avoid ruts and bulls.听

Closing on the finish, the bike batteries were dipping below ten percent and my leg鈥攖he one that pedals鈥攚as very fatigued. I stopped the clock at three hours and two minutes, first paracyclist and 18th overall in the 60-mile distance.听

I spent the rest of the day hanging at the finish with my fiancee and friends, cheering for other riders.听

Sydney was teary at the finish line. 鈥淚t was the first time in years I didn鈥檛 feel completely broken,鈥� she told me later.听

Meg Fisher, the paracycling advocate, was among the last to finish, having completed a back-to-back challenge called the LeadBoat. She had raced the 100-mile Leadville Trail 100 MTB on Saturday, and then done SBT鈥檚 140-mile race on Sunday, becoming the first paracyclist ever to do so.听

鈥淔inishing is representative of what we all can do,鈥� she said later听鈥淚 love that my limits haven鈥檛 been reached yet. I think that鈥檚 what we all find when we set these audacious goals and find that we can reach them.鈥�

When it was my turn on the podium, I was tempted by that top step, but it seemed too tall for my shaky, paraplegic balance, and there was no handrail or wall nearby for me to cling to as I climbed up. Instead, I stood in front of the podium and raised my arms, very grateful for the opportunity.

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The first thing I did upon arriving at my new home in Boulder, Colorado, in September 2018鈥揵efore unloading my 16 bikes, peeing, cracking a beer, or even calling my dad to tell him I鈥檇 arrived鈥搘as to check out the small balcony behind the condo I鈥檇 rented, sight unseen, with my then fianc茅e.

Across the street, rising high above me, was a breathtaking mountain: steep, craggy, cut by canyons, and covered with evergreens that yielded to broad slabs of exposed gray stone that had been streaked by eons of pounding wind, thunderstorms, and snowmelt.

This was Bear Peak, located just behind the city鈥檚 iconic rock formation鈥攖he Flatirons鈥攁nd the summit was only three miles from my front door. It looked nearly vertical, but I knew that hiking trails led to the top, from a trailhead I could see from where I stood. The mountain beckoned me with a concentration of adventurous western spirit and a oneness with wilderness, reasons that draw so many to great open spaces. I was, in that moment, very glad to be at the foot of this peak.

But I soon got so busy trying to make friends, refind common ground with my ex, and ride and race bikes that I never so much as touched that trail to Bear Peak.

Then, in my tenth month of living in Boulder, on July 20, 2019, I was hit by a driver while riding my bike, and I nearly died.

The next time I saw Bear Peak was when I came home from a three-month hospital stay, newly paraplegic. My left leg was paralyzed, and I was healing from 35 broken bones, internal bleeding, and collapsed lungs. It took me six minutes to walk 100 feet from my condo鈥檚 parking lot to the front door. I relied on crutches and a heavy brace that ran from under my foot to the top of my thigh, locking my knee to give me a peg leg. At the time, I was no longer worried about anything other than getting through each day with less pain.

As I healed, and the pain slowly began to ease, I started thinking of physical goals. I wanted to get rid of the massive leg brace. Then I wanted to be able to walk without crutches. My therapists said it would be a while鈥攎aybe years鈥攂efore I could achieve these benchmarks.

I fell back on my years of experience as an athlete and dedicated myself to my fitness. For months I鈥檇 wheel myself into the gym in a wheelchair and lift weights from a seated position. I鈥檇 swim laps with my paralyzed leg dragging limply behind me. I eventually started pedaling a spin bike, and my fianc茅e would come home early from skiing or mountain biking to walk with me around our neighborhood. We were in a trauma-induced truce and joked that it was important for her to 鈥渨alk her Bernie,鈥� my nickname.

As I gained strength, I started to leave the wheelchair behind and walk more. The giant KAFO (knee-ankle-foot orthotic) brace didn鈥檛 allow me to lift my foot using my knee, so ambulating with it strained my trunk muscles, causing a painful soreness. My first major goal, then, was to develop enough quad strength to unlock the brace鈥檚 knee joint, which would mean relying on my own muscles to keep my leg from buckling and using my hip flexors to lift my foot.

I鈥檇 unlock the knee, grab my crutches, and walk laps around the living room. The cat was perpetually confused by this behavior, especially when I鈥檇 unexpectedly tumble to the floor. I fell a lot, and it was always scary. Everyone on my care team constantly reminded me that what might be an inconvenience to someone else could have a significant impact on me, because circulation in my paralyzed limb was greatly impaired, so even lesser injuries would take a long time to heal, increasing the possibility of infection. I worried about nicks and would run my hands up and down my sensory-deprived leg to check for broken bones when I found myself unexpectedly on the ground, regardless of how seemingly inconsequential the fall.

When I was certain that I knew how to regain my feet after a fall, I moved the show outside. On one early attempt to leave the pavement, I spectacularly yard-saled in the middle of a wide, smooth dirt road. This happened during the earliest days of COVID, and after making my fianc茅e take a video of me lying on the ground, splayed out but unhurt, I quickly clamored to my feet so we could keep our distance from other masked walkers.

Spring turned to summer, my confidence grew, and I felt safe walking alone. I started using trekking poles instead of crutches and gave myself the goal of walking ten kilometers by the end of summer. I achieved this goal in August 2020. Around the same time, I finally made it across the street to the trailhead. The lower trails weren鈥檛 too exciting, but it immediately became clear that the network rising to the top of Bear Peak offered a lot to explore.

All the walking and my dedication to physical therapy paid off. In September, I transitioned to a lightweight, below-the-knee AFO, an ankle-foot orthosis.听The new equipment dramatically increased my mobility. Throughout that fall and winter, I methodically extended my hiking range and pushed my limits on harder terrain, venturing onto uneven trails with ample vertical gain.

As the second COVID summer wore on, I hiked every weekend, often alone or sometimes accompanied by my new girlfriend. I was soon familiar with every rock and root, and gave directions to other hikers. I slowly edged my way farther up the hill and kept increasing my distance. One weekend, looking for new places to go, I turned left at a junction where I usually turned right and found myself at the base of Fern Canyon, on a short trail that rises steeply up a slot carved into Bear Peak鈥檚 flank. At the base, the trail follows the bottom of an exposed rock dihedral that I鈥檇 been looking up at from my home for three years. I touched it with a sense of wonder and disbelief.

The canyon was very steep, requiring me to occasionally toss my poles ahead so I could clamber forward on all fours. In many other places, I鈥檇 step up as high as I could with my right foot, using the strong muscles in that leg to ascend. Then I鈥檇 match my feet and repeat the process. The muscles in my left hip were too weak to let me pick that foot up more than a few inches. On that first foray, I only made it two-tenths of a mile up the canyon before deciding I was out of my comfort zone. I retreated.

A few weeks later, I returned to the canyon, hiking a little farther. Back home, I pulled out a map and scrutinized the peak, glancing back and forth between the topo lines and the mountain across the street. I decided I鈥檇 try to reach a prominent saddle a mile below the summit.

One August afternoon in 2021, I got there. From the saddle, you can look down at Boulder, sprawling from the hills to the plains to the east. The summit rose steeply to the south.

My summit bid happened on a whim in September. Fern Canyon remained hard, but I knew what to expect. There were plenty of other people on the trail, including a tiny baby in a backpack. I was listening to an audiobook of World War Z, and right about the time Todd Wainio described the ineffectual military bloat that failed to stop the dead at the Battle of Yonkers, I reached the saddle and turned south to tackle the last mile to the summit.

That ultimate stretch was new to me and took more than an hour. It was much steeper than it looked from my balcony. My hip flexors screamed in agony with each step, and I could feel my right glute鈥攖he only one I can feel鈥攕eizing into a baseball-size knot as I neared the peak.

But this time, the view really was worth the effort.

The height was dizzying and wonderful鈥攖here was the local high school, and our brewpub鈥攂ut it also showed me things I hadn鈥檛 anticipated: There, also, was the spot where I鈥檇 fought for my life in a roadside ditch. There was the hospital where I鈥檇 been saved. There was the clinic where I still go for physical therapy twice a week. There was the road where just 18 months prior I鈥檇 fallen like a fawn taking shaky first steps. There, to the south, was Denver, where I鈥檇 spent three months in three different hospitals. Arrayed below me were the thousands of trees I鈥檇 walked past, miraculously on my own two feet, on the monthslong journey to reach these heights. From that perch, sitting with my legs dangling off of a rock, I could see my whole life in Colorado鈥攖ragic and triumphant.

I wish I鈥檇 gotten up there sooner. I couldn鈥檛 believe I鈥檇 finally made it.

The post Hiking the Mountain in My Backyard Became the Crux of My Recovery appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

I鈥檇 rehearsed the speech several times the night before, but the judge still had to ask me to slow down as I read my statement. As I addressed the court, the driver who hit me more than two years prior wasn鈥檛 in my field of vision, but I could still feel him off to my left and I wondered if my words would impact him, or anyone. I wondered if friends and supporters watching the proceedings via video feed would be able to see both of us at the same time. I wondered if the few friends I鈥檇 asked to attend in person could see how much my hands were shaking.

In July 2019, on an unusually gloomy afternoon in Boulder, Colorado, the assailant drove his old van into me. The driver fled and left me in a roadside ditch with injuries so severe that I very nearly died: internal bleeding, collapsed lungs, 35 broken bones, a concussion, and a spinal-cord injury that paralyzed my left leg and some organs. By grit and luck鈥攐r maybe due to a higher power鈥擨 became a rare example of what happens when a van听smashes into a cyclist and somehow doesn鈥檛 cause death.

I鈥檝e been emotionally unprepared for everything that鈥檚 happened since that day and therefore shouldn鈥檛 have been surprised by the feelings I experienced when, after nearly two and a half years, I confronted my attacker in court. But I turned out to be unprepared for that moment, too.

With relative speed, police located the vehicle and impounded it, but the van鈥檚 owner denied knowledge of a crash. He also obstinately refused to explain how pieces of his turn signal ended up at the crash site, or to provide any explanation about who was driving, if not him. The police finally issued an arrest warrant on November 9, 2020, but there was no immediate听arrest and no meaningful update.

At some point during the process, I lost hope for any kind of justice and became resigned that this would be yet another driver to deal mortal wounds to a cyclist and get away with it. And that I鈥檇 be stuck paying for the results of his destructive behavior in the form of never-ending medical bills that arrive at my home.

I stopped sending periodic queries to the Boulder district attorney and focused on things I could control. Just as I had once dedicated myself to the training that let me compete in elite-level track racing鈥攊nternational races and national championship events鈥擨 now diligently worked on improving my physical condition, limited though it was. I went to various kinds of physical therapy as many as eight times a week and sought out doctors to help me relieve the chronic pain resulting from my lopsided paraplegia. (Today I鈥檝e made progress but still dream of being pain-free.) I bought an e-gravel bike and went on rides that were once routine but felt novel after months of being forced to stick to flat paths. I walked so much that I, without any sensation in one听foot, gave myself a stress fracture in the calcaneus bone, my first major setback in the process of recovery. Still, I trained all summer to hike my first fourteener, and in September, I reached the summit of 14,065-foot Mount Bierstadt.

Six more months passed before the driver was pulled over鈥攂y chance鈥攐n June 19, 2021, for an unrelated traffic violation and taken into custody. Without ceremony, the DA鈥檚 office emailed to say he鈥檇 been arrested.

He appeared in court the following week for a procedural check-in that I watched via video conference. He looked exactly as I鈥檇 pictured him: middle-aged, white, with a paunch and graying stubble that spread over world-weary wrinkles. He looked very serious, staring intently at the camera, his eyes glassy and unblinking as the judge worked through a number of other cases. I wondered if he thought he would get away with the crime. Or if he truly believed he hadn鈥檛 done anything wrong. Of course, he wasn鈥檛 called on to speak, so I continued to wonder.

With the DA鈥檚 office, I discussed the charges against him, the possibility of trial, the possibility of a plea deal, and various options for punishment. When asked, I said I hoped he鈥檇 never be able to drive again. And I asserted that he should bear full and ongoing financial responsibility for my care, though I knew financial remuneration is usually part of a civil action and one听that I almost certainly wouldn鈥檛 pursue鈥攖his was a man without insurance and without resources worth trying to sue for.

The punishment of not driving was not an option available to the court, given the specific charges the driver pleaded guilty to: leaving the scene of an accident, careless driving, and criminal attempt to leave the scene of an accident. The disciplinary actions that were available ranged from restorative justice鈥攕peaking to teenagers about safe driving or some such thing鈥攖o prison.

After a couple months of deliberation, during which I voiced my wishes, which varied from day to day, the DA made him an offer: plead guilty to reduced charges and accept a sentence of two years in prison, plus parole and restitution, which everyone agreed I was unlikely to receive. His lawyer signaled that the deal was preferable to a trial, and the court set a date for arraignment.

I wasn鈥檛 required to address the court before his formal sentencing. In fact my attorney advised against it, telling me that most of his clients come away disappointed to see how little impact their words have. Despite his advice, I planned to speak, knowing that the driver would receive a previously agreed-upon sentence. I would expect nothing from the court but still wanted to state听on the record, and for the larger public, how much this criminal had taken from me.

I arrived in court, in person this time, on October 22, 2021. I read remarks to the presiding judge, describing my initial trauma, the physical pain I live with, and other chronic symptoms of my spinal-cord injury鈥攑ermanent paralysis of one leg, my bladder, bowel, and sexual function鈥攖he cost of managing it all, and also my conviction that there wasn鈥檛 much justice happening that day.

The driver, who spent two and a half years on the lam, was then given the opportunity to speak, and he shuffled to the lectern. 鈥淚鈥檓 sorry to everybody that鈥檚 involved in this incident. I鈥檓 taking full responsibility for this action, and I would like to apologize to Andrew,鈥� he stammered before stepping away. I had no expectations for him either, of course, but his few words failed to reckon with any of my experience: the way he tortured my loved ones while I struggled to cling to life in the early days, or the harm he鈥檇 caused me physically and emotionally. He didn鈥檛 attempt to offer an explanation for fleeing or lying to law enforcement. He sat down in the empty jury box to await the sheriff鈥檚 deputies, who would take him into custody.

I took a little comfort in the judge鈥檚 agreement with my most important point: that a sentence of two years in prison and parole doesn鈥檛 help me and does nothing to prevent him from driving into someone else when he gets out. She agreed that he will be out of prison long before my life sentence ends.

The gavel came down, and I left to get drunk.

I don鈥檛 know what I expected from the arraignment, but I felt very raw after court. A friend visiting from out of state observed that most of the people we talked to about the proceedings over the next several days projected the same set of feelings onto me: they said things like 鈥淚t must be such a relief to have this behind you!鈥� or 鈥淚sn鈥檛 it nice to have some closure?鈥� or 鈥淚t鈥檚 not enough, but aren鈥檛 you happy he鈥檚 going to jail?鈥�

I felt none of those things.

I felt sad. I felt angrier than I had in months, and not at the driver, oddly, but at the criminal justice system鈥檚 utter inability to mete out just punishment. Most of all, I felt hopeless in the face of the huge bills related to my rehabilitation鈥攁pproaching $20,000 per year, after my health insurance鈥檚 contributions, for each of the last two years and with no indication of receding鈥攏ow knowing with some certainty that I鈥檇 gotten all the help I was going to get. It鈥檚 a lot to be 37 years old, looking ahead to another 60 or 70 years of life, knowing that my ability to take care of myself will depend on my ability to stay in high-paying jobs that offer good private health insurance.

Worst of all, while so many around me seemed glad that there was some punishment鈥攁 prison sentence at that!鈥攆or a driver who hit a cyclist when so many are let off听without consequence, I kept thinking about how nothing had changed for me. I was just as paralyzed as I was the day before the arraignment, my hopes for full recovery just as dim, and my needs just as great.

I did my best to take these comments as misguided well-wishes. But my inner New Yorker finally broke free when someone remarked, 鈥淵ou must be happy it鈥檚 all over.鈥�

鈥淚t鈥檚 not over, and I don鈥檛 have anything to be happy about,鈥� I said.

It wasn鈥檛 kindly put, but it is my truth.

The only fitting punishment for a person who鈥檚 shown such little interest in being a safe driver is to take them off the road forever, which I stated in court. But in this country, we give such priority to cars that a punishment of that nature is deemed unthinkably severe. Therefore, the best solution our society has is to put him in jail. He will likely be able to drive again soon after his release, and I can only hope that when he does drive again, he doesn鈥檛 crash into another person. If he does, it will be entirely because the justice system was unable to keep him off the road.

Early in this ordeal, I was predisposed to find a way to forgive this person. But with all that I鈥檝e lost, how can I forgive someone who doesn鈥檛 acknowledge their actions, even as they plead guilty?

And how will his incarceration restore function to my body? How will his time in prison improve my situation in any way at all?

Of course, it will not.

In surviving this assault, I鈥檝e been given a life sentence, and his two-year sentence will be a lot shorter. The unfairness is something that I will have to learn to accept. I鈥檒l also learn to live with the discomfort I feel toward the justice system. Maybe I鈥檒l forgive my attacker once that work is done. Or maybe not.

The post The Driver Who Hit Me Got Two Years in Prison. But I Got a Life Sentence. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Here鈥檚 what you did when you hit me with your van. And, yes, I understand that it almost certainly wasn鈥檛 you who hit me, but since what happened to me was caused by an unidentified assailant who was likely driving while either distracted, drunk, high, using a phone, speeding, or just angry that there was a cyclist on the road, and as you have probably driven in one or more of those states, this is about you and what you did to me鈥攁nd听what you could do to another cyclist.

You plowed into me from behind when I was riding on a nearly empty road. Your speed was so fast relative to mine that I was guaranteed severe injury, despite my safety tokens: a helmet, a blinky light, and a defensive posture听on the right edge of the wide shoulder. Your van hit me with such violence that pieces of your vehicle and mine scattered along the grassy embankment. The impact flung my body through the air, and I landed at the bottom of a roadside ditch.听

The blunt impact sent force vectors through my body, snapping my right collarbone and exploding my left shoulder. It broke every single one of my ribs. And my sternum. It collapsed both of my lungs. You shattered my left ankle, broke my tibia and fibula, and snapped my femur. You crushed my pelvis and caused internal bleeding so severe that my blood pressure didn鈥檛 stabilize for days, even after emergency surgery and pint after pint of transfused blood. You fractured vertebrae in my neck and back and damaged my spinal cord, paralyzing my left leg and compromising my bladder and bowel function.

That would have been enough,听lifetimes鈥� worth of trauma to pass to an unsuspecting 34-year-old man heading home to spend the evening with his fianc茅e after an afternoon of training for the season鈥檚 last big bike race.

But you鈥檙e a special kind of cruel, so you drove away.

You left me to die.

And I would have died if Tim Gillach, a cyclist and insurance salesman听from Colorado鈥檚 Front Range,听hadn鈥檛 caught a fleeting glimpse of my face as he drove past. Although he wasn鈥檛 certain he鈥檇 seen a person, he turned his car around to look again. He spotted the red bike you destroyed. He saw a helmet. He pulled over.

He found me lying in the grass, without any visible wounds or bleeding听but in obvious distress. 鈥淚 saw a man struggling for every single breath,鈥� he told me later, describing my left leg as 鈥減ointing every which way.鈥� He听tried to reassure me as we waited for the ambulance.

鈥淒on鈥檛 worry,鈥� he told me,听recalling his own brutal experience.听Just a few months prior, a distracted driver had hit Gillach听with her car while he听was riding his bike near his home in Arvada, Colorado. The crash broke his pelvis. 鈥淭hey put my 58-year-old body back together, and they will put your body back together,鈥� he said to me. 鈥淛ust keep breathing.鈥�

The first person charged with putting me back together was Dr. Laughlin McCollester, attending emergency physician at the Boulder Community Health emergency department. 鈥淵ou were clinging to life,鈥� he told me recently. 鈥淵ou would not have made it another half-hour without a blood transfusion and other interventions.鈥� When he first got the call that I was about to arrive in his emergency department听and heard about how I鈥檇 been hit, he knew he鈥檇 be looking at a severely injured patient. 鈥淲e had to prioritize the life-threatening issues, what would kill you first,鈥� he said. 鈥淚f we lost your airway, if we didn鈥檛 get those chest tubes in fast, that kind of stuff. You were so weak and so depleted, you required maximum aggressive care.鈥�

McCollester points听to the laws of physics as the main explanation for the severe level of injuries sustained in a bike-versus-car crash. 鈥淚t comes down to kinetic energy, the energy inherent in a mass that鈥檚 moving,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f you have a van that鈥檚 traveling at a high rate of speed,听that is an incredible amount of kinetic energy.鈥� When a human body absorbs that amount of kinetic energy, force vectors travel through bone and tissue, causing all manner of blunt-force injuries as they go.听

In the emergency room, McCollester immediately cut into both sides of my rib cage to relieve pressure, helping my lungs reinflate. He and his colleagues听inserted two tubes to drain blood that had been collecting in my chest. I couldn鈥檛 breathe on my own, so they sedated me and then intubated me, forcing听a tube down my throat and into my lungs, before completing extensive scans of my whole body.

Their full-body images revealed catastrophic damage: so many broken bones that they decided to fly me to a bigger facility. 鈥淵ou needed five to seven surgeons working on you at once,鈥� he told me, adding that I was one of the three worst blunt-force trauma patients he鈥檇 treated in his nearly 20-year career. With all of my emergency care focused on stabilizing my breathing and controlling the bleeding, it wasn鈥檛 until later that听doctors realized my spinal cord had been damaged as well.

My only memory of the flight to Denver Health is the sound of thumping helicopter rotors, which came to me in drug-induced fever dreams over the following weeks and blended elements of reality with nightmarish inventions of my mind. They always ended with me stuck on my back, unable to move. My loved ones took comfort in knowing I wouldn鈥檛 remember the horrors of the ICU:听The breathing tube that stayed in my throat for nine days and would give me coughing fits that felt like I was choking and gasping for air. The restraints that kept me in a fixed position in my bed hour after hour. The ten surgeries I endured over 17 days to fix my shoulder, pelvis (a common injury in bike-versus-car crashes, McCollester notes), femur, tibia, ankle, and spinal column. Being deprived of any nutrition鈥攏ot even from a feeding tube鈥攆or six days. When I was weaned off sedation and came to eight days later, I remember endless thirst.听I wanted a drink of water听but wasn鈥檛 allowed any for several more days until speech pathologists helped me relearn to swallow. It was almost two weeks before I began to claw myself away from the drugs鈥� effects and understand the reality of what had happened to me.

Even then听the near constant anesthesia and pain meds made me crazy. On a few occasions, I attempted to pull out the many tubes going into my body. Once, when I鈥檇 been granted a respite听from my cloth wrist restraints, I successfully pulled a feeding tube from my nose and remember the satisfying feeling of it coming free鈥攁nd the blinding pain of it being forced back in. An ICU nurse who helped take care of me said recently that my erratic behavior is common for patients on strong painkillers听and sedatives. What seemed normal to the medical staff was deeply unsettling to my family, who had never seen me come so unhinged.

My hallucinations were even more unnerving. In one memorable incident, I told my family that the nurses were beating me up. Gloria and Eric, my fianc茅e and brother, insisted they weren鈥檛, and it took months for me to realize that, in the early days after the crash, my body was so broken that any attempt to touch me or move me resulted in anvil-dropped-on-the-foot levels of discomfort. On a pain scale of one to ten, my existence was a constant 15; it鈥檚 no wonder I thought the nurses were secretly torturing me.听

But it鈥檚 the work that was needed to repair my back that now haunts me. I remember when I first realized that the warm, stubbly mass in the bed with me was my leg. Gloria told me recently that when she, my dad, and my brother initially explained my spinal-cord injury to me, I told them that I already had a sense that something of the sort was wrong; that听mass attached to my left听hip didn鈥檛 move when I told it to.听

The violent impact with your vehicle did so much damage to my spine that it required two separate operations鈥攐ne from the back to fuse it听and another from the front to remove fragments of bone and to insert metal cages. Between the two procedures, I got an infection. The resulting illness, though not unusual for a very sick person in a hospital, delayed the final operation by five days. Would my leg still be paralyzed if the doctors had been able to perform that surgery sooner? I wouldn鈥檛 have to wonder听if you hadn鈥檛 driven into me.

After nearly a month at Denver Health, I was transferred to a long-term-care hospital to rest and heal ahead of rehab.听

The first time I stood, it was thanks to an occupational therapist, a person half my size, who pulled me to my feet. It was the hardest thing I鈥檝e ever done. Standing. I have more than three decades of experience being upright but only managed a few seconds before collapsing back into bed.听

I was eventually transferred to Craig Hospital, a facility just outside Denver that specializes in rehabilitating spinal-cord and traumatic brain injuries, both common among cyclists who are听hit by cars. The therapists there taught me to walk using forearm crutches and a brace that extends听from my foot to my upper thigh. It locks my knee, essentially giving me a peg leg. The nurses and doctors helped me figure out the right cocktail of laxatives to get my bowels鈥攏eurologically stunned from the trauma鈥攎oving regularly but not urgently. I learned how to insert a catheter into my penis since my bladder was (and remains) stubbornly napping, and when I could shakily ambulate on my crutches and brace, albeit not yet fast enough to safely cross a street, they sent me home.

Now, more than nine months since the crash, I still wake up in pain every day. The way I walk, stiff legged and with a severe jolt, causes imbalance and a tightness that pulls on muscles, ligaments, bones, and joints throughout my lower back, abdomen, and hips. It all hurts like crazy. Sometimes I鈥檓 super stiff. Other times my tailbone burns for no apparent reason听or my hip aches from the overly tight muscles pulling bones violently together. I鈥檓 barely able to reach my left arm above my head. And there鈥檚 nerve pain that constantly sparkles, radiates, pulses, and tingles up and down my paralyzed left leg. It鈥檚 worse in the cold.听

Four manual-therapy and bodywork appointments (now only two, due to COVID-19) each week help to ameliorate the aching, stabbing, and burning, but they鈥檝e never come close to making it go away. I rarely take pain meds, but early on, when the pain was worse, I was told over the phone that one of my doctors didn鈥檛 want to refill a prescription for Tramadol. Since the doctor wouldn鈥檛 medicate me, I politely asked her assistant if she would like to take some of the pain on herself. I clicked off my phone and realized that this is exactly how a person could get addicted to opioids and turn to illicit sources, just to not hurt.听

In physical therapy, I鈥檝e been relearning to walk. First, therapists helped me master my brace. Then they heaped on exercises to help strengthen my leg and correct imbalances. Now听I鈥檓 spending more and more time with my brace鈥檚 knee joint unlocked, gingerly stepping across my living room, catching myself on my crutches when my fledgling quad strength inevitably fails. I practiced minute movements in a waist-deep pool for six months, and I walk on a treadmill designed to reduce gravity, environments where I can confidently take steps without my crutches. I鈥檝e taken to calling the world outside the pool听鈥渢he heavy place,鈥� a world where I have to roll myself around in a wheelchair any time I鈥檓 not strapped into the thigh-high brace.

And despite all that, I鈥檓 lucky: my injury is low in my spine, partially hindering my left leg听but leaving me with normal function in my right leg, my arms, and my most important organs. From my time at Craig Hospital, I know a lot of other spinal-cord patients who are much more impaired.听

There are also injuries that cause a different kind of pain. I recently asked Emily Markley, a psychologist who treated me at Craig, how getting hit by your car might affect a person. She ran through some common symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder: hypervigilance, recurring memories of an incident, and avoidance, as well as other typical effects like survivor鈥檚听guilt听and substance abuse. Just when I started to pat myself on the back, checking off all the symptoms I鈥檇 steered clear of, she started talking about difficulty finding joy.

I love riding my bike. Or, I loved it. I can鈥檛 keep the tense straight anymore. It鈥檚 been so long since I鈥檝e pedaled outside that, despite the classic adage, I鈥檓 worried I won鈥檛 remember how. I spend hours thinking about how I鈥檒l manage to get my near useless left leg onto a pedal鈥攁nd then safely back on the ground. When you hit me with your van, I was on my way home from training at the Boulder Valley Velodrome. I was halfway through an exciting season of racing my track bike all over the country. I was riding well and spending time with friends.

Now my racing career is over. Worse than that, my life鈥攁 life that was centered around cycling and being outside鈥攊s permanently altered. I began racing bikes in high school. Before this crash, I rode my bike six or seven days a week. Without bikes to connect me to friends, and without the ability to do much outdoors at all, I often feel isolated, lonely.听

One source of comfort has been sharing my story. My friends say my fight to regain strength is inspiring, and they thank me for my openness. And while I鈥檓 glad to offer strength to anyone who may be facing a challenge, that鈥檚 not why I鈥檓 sharing this story. My goal is to make you a safer driver.听

I know it鈥檚 highly unlikely that you hit me with your car, but I also know that it鈥檚 likely you exhibit dangerous behaviors when driving鈥攅very driver does from time to time. So I鈥檓 sharing my story to show you what you could do to your friend, coworker, neighbor, or just some person who doesn鈥檛 deserve to become paralyzed as a result of your carelessness. I鈥檓 sharing my story so that every time you drive over the speed limit, glance down from the road to see a notification on your phone, don鈥檛 quite make it through the intersection before yellow turns to red, or get behind the wheel after a boozy dinner, you will think of me living with chronic pain and struggling on my crutches, and maybe you鈥檒l slow down a little听and refocus on the road.

I used to be whole and able-bodied, same as you. When you get behind the wheel, you have incredible power to rob someone of their body. I鈥檓 sharing my story to remind you of your responsibility to drive safely, lest you end up maiming someone like me and living with the guilt of causing their lifelong disability or death.

The post To the Driver Who Hit Me and Ran appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

It’s no secret that cyclists like to knock back the occasional brew鈥攁 round-up of the best bike bars wouldn’t have made much sense if they didn’t鈥攚hich is why we decided to put together a list of the best places to catch some high-level racing and have a good time. Cyclocross, which features a seemingly perfect mix of spectator-friendly loop courses, mud, and crazed fans, is especially well represented. But big races like the Tour de France and the Philly Race offer plenty chances to catch pro-level road racing and even do some riding yourself. Whichever style of riding you prefer, we suspect you’ll find an event here worth celebrating. Responsibly, of course.

The Tour of Flanders

Beer, frites, and cobblestones

When Belgian Nick Nuyens won the 2011 edition of the Tour of Flanders鈥攁nd beat favored Swiss rider Fabian Cancellara鈥攆ans reacted as if he had saved his country鈥檚 honor. The next day, the newspaper Het Nieuwsblad put Nuyens on the cover and called him 鈥淥ur Savior.鈥� Which is all to say, in Belgium, they take their bike racing seriously.

They also take their beer seriously. Each year, drinking begins early in the morning as riders depart Ghent for a 150-mile-plus lap around the Flanders. If you鈥檙e willing to do a little General Lee-style driving鈥攁nd have a competent navigator鈥攊t鈥檚 possible to view the race on several of the legendary cobbled bergs, or hills. Start your day at the Grand Depart in Bruge and watch the race roll out while you enjoy a few waffles or frites, served properly in a paper cone. The debate over which of the nation’s five thousand frites vendors is best never ends, but like bagels in New York City, you can’t really go wrong.

Wash those down with the day鈥檚 first beers at , then rally to some of the most famous bergs: Oude Kwaremont, Koppenburg, Valkenberg, and Eikenmolen. For the 2012 race, the legendary cobbled hill of the Muur-Kapelmuur was eliminated in favor of finishing circuits around the town of Oudenaarde (also home to the ). It鈥檚 difficult to get close to the finish line, but any bar you find鈥� is one of our favorites鈥攚ill have the race on TV. Buy the locals a round and they might even translate the commentary for you. For a more organized trip, arranges travel to Flanders as well as several other spring classics.

The Manayunk Wall

With a 17 percent grade, thousands of spectators, and one of the best pro fields on U.S. shores, it’s no wonder the Wall makes Philly police nervous

In the grandest traditions of commerce and American bike racing, this race has held many names in its 28-year history. These days, it’s a mouthful: TD Bank Philadelphia International Cycling Championship. Or otherwise, the Philly Race.

Racing on the 14.4-mile main circuit, which the men’s field completes 10 times, kicks off at 10:45 A.M. and draws a crowd of around 300,000. The place to be is on the Manayunk Wall, a half-mile climb with cobble stone sections and grades as steep as 17-percent. In 2011, that they wouldn鈥檛 tolerate excessive rowdiness. The cops have plenty to manage: Frat-party style drinking, fans dousing riders with booze, viking costumes, and plenty of house parties. Order a pint at O鈥橞rien鈥檚 Watering Hole, at 320 Lyceum Ave., on The Wall, site of a sprinkler to cool riders. The actual racing is pretty good, too: the UCI gives the Philly Race a 鈥�1.HC鈥� designatation, the highest category for a bike race short of a world championship or grand tour. The winner nets $13,500; you get an early-evening hangover. June 3, 2012,

The Red Hook Crit

Because a bunch of guys racing fixies at night in Brooklyn is bound to get rowdy

True, the has lost some of its under-the-radar appeal鈥攖he days when the race location was made public only hours before the start are gone鈥攂ut it’s still held at night, and three-time winner Dan Chabanov is a former bike messenger. Racers must use fixed-gear bikes with drop handlebars (and wear helmets). Before you head over to the course at the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal in Red Hook, prime yourself at The Brooklyn Icehouse, 318 Van Brunt Street. Drinking isn’t allowed on site, but the hundreds of spectators usually end up at the official after party, fueled this year by race sponsor Sixpoint Brewery (from Brooklyn, of course), at , a beer bar with a chill vibe. Runners can get in on the action, too, with a 5K in the evening before the bikes hit the street. March, 2013

The Berlin Six

We’re not sure whether racing or attending the Berlin Six is more exhausting, but we’d like to find out

Imagine a three-ring circus, complete with the trapeze act, menagerie, and clowns. Then imagine a rock show in the middle of all that. Then imagine a world-class bike race taking place on a banked track surrounding the hubbub. That鈥檚 a six-day race. The format, first conceived in the 19th century, originally had athletes racing for six whole days and nights without a break. (The winner was usually the guy who could stay awake the longest.) These days, racing is limited to evening hours, and the trapeze act has disappeared, but there’s still plenty of action and free-flowing booze. This is Germany, after all, the country that invented the biergarten and the stein krug. Crowds come to watch the riding, but there’s often as much dancing to live music as there is spectating. Held each January and run 97 times since the first edition in 1909, the race has seen Tour de France stars and Olympians compete in recent years. Attending all six nights requires a big commitment to partying, but for those who have less than a week of drinking in them, tickets are available individually each night. January 2013,

CrossVegas

What happens at CrossVegas stays in CrossVegas

, which takes place each September at the cycling trade show known as , is one of the season鈥檚 first major 鈥榗ross races. Held at night only minutes from the Las Vegas strip, the combination of early-season dirt and industry energy make for huge, rowdy crowds along the course. Racers without a chance at placing try to pick up dollar bills planted on the course by drunk spectators. And the more you drink, the more thrilling it is to cheer for riders grasping, and occasionally slipping, for a little cash. If you can wrangle an insider connection鈥攁nd at InterBike, insiders are everywhere鈥攈ead to one of several VIP areas on the course, which are usually stocked with free beer from race sponsor Sierra Nevada. And if Vegas isn’t your bag, consider Louisville, which will host the in January 2013. It could be the biggest bike race party on this side of the Atlantic in years. September 19, 2012,

The Downieville Classic

A five-day fat tire festival that closes with a river jump and live music

This five-day mountain-bike festival includes a downhill event and all-mountain riding, but the centerpiece is the 29-mile point-to-point cross-country race. Tracing Gold Rush-era trails, the race begins in Sierra City, California, tops out at 7,100 feet in the Sierra Nevada range, then drops down to the finish in Downieville. That’s where the party gets going, with racers celebrating their ride at the famed River Jump world championships, held on the Yuba River. Live music, headlined this year by the Saddle Tramps, who will play at The Fire House, starts in the evening, providing a perfect soundtrack to sample some of the local brew. The festival also includes a weekend-long bike expo and street fair. August 1-5, 2012,

The Tour de France

Alpe d’Huez is off the schedule in 2012, but that doesn’t mean the course won’t be crawling with cycling hooligans

Any other year, we鈥檇 just tell you to head straight to L鈥橝lpe d鈥橦uez, but for 2012, the race will bypass the iconic climb for only the third time since 1976. Instead, the toughest climb looks to be the ascent to Peyragudes, on stage 17 (Thursday, July 19, 2012). Either way, if you鈥檙e looking for a raucous day of bike racing and boozing, you won鈥檛 go wrong by pointing yourself toward any of the major mountain stages. The most dedicated partiers鈥攐ften wearing costumes鈥攁rrive three or four days before the race comes through, staking out territory along the steepest pitches or sharpest switchbacks. Crowds on flat stages can get rambunctious, but the climbs are particularly rowdy. In 1999, Giuseppe Guerini was knocked from his bike by a spectator on L鈥橝lpe, then won the stage; and in 2001, Lance Armstrong sealed his sixth tour victory there after racing through crushing crowds. Need help traveling to France? There are several tour operators, but is the Tour鈥檚 official travel agency. June 30 through July 22, 2012

Your Local ‘Cross Race

For those years when saving for a new bike prohibits extensive travel

Blew out the family travel budget on your new road machine? Don鈥檛 worry, there are plenty of smaller, local cyclocross races with awesome atmospheres. Cyclocross is the fastest-growing segment of bicycle racing for a good reason: whether or not you compete (races are usually between 30 and 45 minutes long for amateurs), or just cheer on your friends, the traditional short course makes for ideal viewing. And, because these are local events, you鈥檙e likely to know many of the racers and spectators.

Every venue has its own rules, but many allow you to bring your own booze. Toss in a portable grill and think of it as a tailgate, only with hipsters instead of juiced-up frat boys. There are now 鈥榗ross races in nearly every state, but these three are among our favorites.

The , in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania mixes 鈥榗ross with urban-assault style racing in, you guessed it, a junkyard. Hang out for the free party post-race.

The , in Portland, Oregon, is one of the largest regional 鈥榗ross series in the nation and features ten races between September and December, including the Dechutes Brewery Cup, which attracts some of the country’s best riders.

The , in Gloucester, Massachusetts, is part of the legendary Verge New England Cyclocross Championship Series. The race is each October at Stage Fort Park, a beautiful venue overlooking Gloucester’s Harbor. Racing, from the amateurs ranks all the way up through the pros,听is competitive. Drinking is sanctioned in the course-side beer tent.

The Trans-Sylvania Mountain Bike Epic

A bike race that’s a little bit like camp for adults

Some race parties are for spectators (see: The Philly Race). This one is for the racers. An eight-stage mountain-bike marathon, held each year in late spring in Central Pennsylvania, the is contested by a handful of hardened racers鈥攐nly about 50 in 2011. But it’s a perfect participant-based race party: If you want to ride hard over rough single track, you鈥檒l find plenty of fast competition. How fast? In 2011, Cannondale pro won the men鈥檚 division, with rider Amanda Carey taking a narrow win on the women鈥檚 side. More interested in camping out and enjoying drinks with friends? We won’t begrudge you some soft pedaling to save your legs for the traditional 3-Beer Derby. Most racers stay at the race venue, Seven Mountains Scout Camp, in Centre Hall, Pennsylvania, adding to the spirit of community fun, but if you need a civilization break head into nearby State College. May 27-June 2, 2012,

Single Speed Cyclocross World Championships

The winner’s prize is a tattoo. ‘Nuff said.

There鈥檚 only one rule at this irreverent rolling circus: one gear. Held each year in a new location, it wouldn’t be hard to mistake the Single Speed Cyclocross World Championships for a drinking game surrounded by a bike race. Athletes in six categories, including a new women鈥檚 category unveiled last year, race 鈥榗ross bikes with single-speed drive trains over a course that combines traditional 鈥榗ross features with more whimsical elements鈥攊n 2011, racers faced a Le Mans-style start up a steep, muddy incline, a knee-deep water pit, and hip-high log barriers, although the extra fun parts change each year. Overall winners are required to get a SSCXWC tattoo, although last year’s champs refused, sparking a controversy. Not racing? Don a costume and practice your heckling. So far, information on the 2012 event is sketchy, but it looks like the race will be held in Santa Cruz, California.

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