Ok, so I fell off my bike, or, rather, with my bike, on September 8. My right hand, arm, and knee were bloodied, and my helmet was battered and scratched, but I felt well enough to ride the two remaining miles home.
My left hand felt like it needed to click. I had lost grip strength. Kip and I went to the pharmacy and got a wrist splint and gauze pads and large Band Aids. Two days later, I rode thirteen miles, testing my hand. It seemed okay. The next day, I rode fifty miles and had only minor discomfort. But there was swelling, and heat. My sister convinced me to go to urgent care. Diagnosis: transverse fracture of the fifth metacarpal, left hand. I ended up with this rigid, cumbersome, fingerless glove:
The next two weeks are going to be a challenge. Kip and I are leaving in a week for Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana. I planned to ride a bike there, including a metric century in Vicksburg. My orthopedist cleared me to bike, but this cast is mega-awkward. I’m going to spend the next few days deciding which type of bike is easiest to handle in my current condition, a road bike, a mountain bike, or even a beach cruiser. Then I will contact the rental shop and make a change if I have to. The tickets are non-refundable, I didn’t buy trip insurance, and besides, we have our hearts set on going. If I can’t bike, we can hike.
Heartworks, a local charity down the road, posted a sign this week that said, “Embrace change, even when you don’t want to.” I knew from the start that injuries could easily and frequently derail my plans. I made it to Oregon and Washington despite a hamstring strain. I made it to Florida despite a mastectomy. And I will make it to the Deep South one more time despite a broken hand. Stay tuned. I’ll keep you posted on my travels and travails.